


Off The Record

by crookedswingset



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Norman Osborn, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Blood and Injury, Cancer, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Mistaken Identity, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Content, Spideypool Big Bang 2018, Trust Issues, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-10-31 15:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 138,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17852201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedswingset/pseuds/crookedswingset
Summary: Peter Parker is a corporate lackey whose sole job is to root out problem executives who waste Oscorp’s money and time. Wade Wilson is a reserve Avenger on the hunt for a prize even Iron Man couldn’t nail down: the real identity of everyone’s favorite webhead.Too bad most people think Spider-Man is Harry Osborn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is an entry to the 2018 Spideypool Big Bang challenge. Stop what you're doing and [check out the art first](http://c0njidraws.tumblr.com/post/183055217247/my-contribution-to-the-2018-spideypool-big-bang). I had the absolute pleasure of working with [c0nji](http://c0njidraws.tumblr.com/) this year. Not only is c0nji a super awesome artist, she is also a delight to work with. I couldn't have done this without you, c0nji! Your excitement, positivity, and art was hugely motivating to me the whole way through.
> 
> Also, huge thanks to [Sunflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight) for her awesome beta work! Oh my gosh, guys, you have no idea how much time she put into this, wrangling my wacky tenses and sleuthing through my weird typos. She is amazing, and this work wouldn't nearly be as polished with her. All remaining errors are mine! Thank you so much, Sunflower!
> 
> Big shout out to the mods of the Spideypool Big Bang this year as well as the folks on the Spideypool discord who helped me work through some ideas. This was fun! Hope you enjoy.

“In New York City, people may be seeing a premature end to summer temperatures as a cold front moves in from the north,” the weather lady was saying on the kitchen television. That was good news, as far as Ellie was concerned. It was only mid-August, and it had been hot as balls since the first week of March.

“For the remainder of the week, temperatures will be low sixties and high fifties. This weekend, expect rain as well as some local thunder showers-”

Pretending to be entranced by the local news, she casually tangled her bare foot around her girlfriend’s ankle. When Yukio smiled at her, one eyebrow lifting, Ellie hid her smirk behind her coffee cup. She was about 70% sure she could convince Yukio to play hooky today. The kids would thank her. Even though Yukio was favored amongst the student teachers, it was still technically summer. No one wanted to learn more about the advancement of mutant rights during the summer.

All it would take was a little attention, a little charm, and she’d have Yukio right in the palm of her-

“That is most wonderful news!”

Ellie jerked, spilling her coffee. “Jesus fuck, Colossus.” How did she miss his entrance into the kitchen? He was literally seven feet tall. “Use your inside voice.” She was rattled.

Colossus was too busy turning up the volume on the television to protest her language. Somewhere in the last two minutes, weather had shifted to a business report, covering a press conference from Oscorp. Blazoned across the bottom of the screen were the words: A CANCER CURE?

A younger guy—early thirties, max—stood at the podium. The guy had dark, serious eyes set in a narrow face. His odd, chaotic tumble of hair clashed with his suit, which was tightly tailored to his lean body and clearly expensive. He had an entourage of people standing behind him, hands clasped in front of them. Only one of them—a smaller man with better hair but a crappier suit—was watching the guy, a faint smile on his face.

“When my father built Oscorp from the ground up,” the guy—Osborn, apparently—continued on passionately, “he always wanted cancer to one day become like smallpox or polio—treatable, preventable, and no longer a condition that destroys the lives of our families.” He smiled then, flashing picture-perfect teeth. He lifted both hands from the podium. “On behalf of Oscorp, I’m pleased to announce that today is that day. The cure for cancer is our new product, Vitanova. We’re taking questions now-”

And it was a good thing they were, because there was a barrage of them—when would it be available? How much would it cost? Which cancers did it cure? Had it been tested?

For Ellie, the answers were mostly drowned out by Colossus and Yukio excitedly chattering over the report. When Yukio started talking about how she was going to share this with her students, Ellie sighed and hooked her chin on her fist. Her chances of getting Yukio to play hooky were now next to zero.

“Betty Brant from the Daily Bugle,” one reporter called out. She lifted her phone towards Osborn. “Mr. Osborn, what do you say about the recent allegations that you are the vigilante named Spider-Man?”

There was a disapproving murmur from the rest of the crowd about the change of topic from era defining innovations to social media rumors and blurry cell phone pictures. But Osborn himself lit up, ten years shaving off him immediately. “Ms. Brant,” he drawled. “Let me answer your question with another question.” He leaned on the podium, eager. “When was the last time you’ve seen me and Spidey in the same room together?”

When the press conference cut back to the news station, the reporters there were tittering professionally at the comment. Nothing more was made of the Bugle’s ridiculous question. This was not going to be an Iron Man press conference—mostly because no one in their right mind would knowingly admit to being such a controversial figure as Spider-Man, a vigilante whose rogue gallery looked like something out of a child’s nightmare.

No, Vitanova was the topic of the hour. Whatever Vitanova was.

The day went on. Ellie finished her coffee. She got roped into one of Yukio’s classes. She got in a fight with Wolverine. Then she got lectured by the Professor.

And, at the end of the day, as far as Ellie was concerned? The press conference was completely forgotten.

But for others, the trouble had just started.

 

-

 

Jessica lifted her head from the bar top, squinting at the fluttering newspaper in her face.

SPIDER-MAN—UNMASKED?

She drained a mouthful of her whiskey thoughtfully, before saying, “Why do you read that garbage?”

From behind the counter, Luke flicked the paper down low enough to grace her with a hard stare. “I support local businesses.” His eyes went back to his reading material. “Plus, they always have the best pictures of Spidey.”

Jessica saluted him sarcastically. “And the truth comes out.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the headline. Luke was right. No picture ever did justice to Spider-Man’s particular brand of acrobatics and aerial tomfoolery, but the Bugle’s came the closest. She was 99% certain they were recycling their old photos, though. Spidey looked almost skinny in all those allegedly current photos. Underfed. Like he hadn’t yet figured out how many calories he should be giving to satisfy his enhanced metabolism.

Whatever. Jessica glanced around the empty bar, swiveling in her stool. The other two were late. She sat up straighter, fiddling with her glass as her eyes made a habitual journey through the newspaper articles framed on the walls. It was a who’s-who gallery of superhero triumphs, ranging from stories from right after the Incident to recent articles on the takedown of major crime bosses.

Jessica had questioned Luke’s sense of décor exactly once, to which he countered by questioning her sense of community.

(“I’m not part of any community,” she’d replied.

“And that’s why your ass gets beat 70% of the time. Cause, meet effect.”)

Luke could decorate his bar however he wanted. He’d more than earned it back, after all the crap they’d been through. The only thing she would continue to question is the name— _Luke’s_. He might as well have painted a target on the front door. Like Jessica, Luke never held onto a secret identity, and he had a shit ton of enemies. She and Claire Temple had a running bet on how long it would take for the bar to be blown up or firebombed. Again.

The door jingled. Jessica tensed moments before two hands clapped companionably on her shoulders. “Oh, look, it’s the Immortal Iron Fist, Defender of K’un Lun,” she drawled, voice flat. “We’re saved.”

Danny flicked her arm for that but otherwise didn’t comment. He slid into the stool next to her, gazing at her with a frown. “Should you be trashed this early in the morning?”

“I’ll trash you,” she snapped.

Luke quickly rained on her parade with a stern, “How quickly do you two want to get kicked out of my bar?”

Jessica and Danny side-eyed each other before giving into a mutual stalemate.

“Fuck off,” she hissed under her breath before turning her attention back to Luke. She pointed her glass at him. “Anyway, there is no way in hell Harry Osborn is Spider-Man.”

Her mouth twisted as soon as she said it. God, what was her life now that is perfectly acceptable behavior to speculate on the identities of animal themed superheroes? Even worse, Danny’s eyes had lit up at the conversation topic.

She needed a drink. Another one. Possibly the whole bottle.

“Why not?” Luke was saying. “About half of the supers around here are hyper-privileged white guys.”

Danny smirked. “Hey, I resemble that remark.” He reached over her to grab her glass from her limp hand and drained the rest of her whiskey. Jessica cocked her head as she considered punching him in the ribs—not hard enough to break anything, but definitely hard enough for him to remember her the next 100 times he inhaled. 200, if he complained.

“Just saying,” Luke said dubiously, “if Spidey is Osborn, it fits the mold.”

“Spider-Man is not Harry Osborn. Trust me,” Danny said. “I watched Osborn trip up a set of stairs once during a charity fundraiser.”

“Could be a pratfall,” Jessica offered magnanimously. “Faking it for the cameras.” But Luke was making a face. “What? Do you have a better idea who he is?”

Luke quirked a smile at her, his expression sheepish. “Some rando. $250 says we don’t even recognize him.”

“No deal.” Danny sat back, crossed his arms, and shot him a patronizing look. “I sneeze that much money out in my sleep.”

Luke squinted at him. “Why do I work with you again?” He tipped his chin up at Danny. “What would make the bet worthwhile to you?”

Danny frowned in thought. “Hm. Probably your whole bar.”

Luke smiled with his teeth. “Oh, fuck you very much, white boy.” Danny mirrored his grin. Their relationship was weird. 

“So, those are our only choices, huh? Random guy or Harry Osborn.” Jessica rubbed at her face, distracted at the possibilities.

Meanwhile, Danny’s head was whipping back and forth in an obvious, suspicious manner as he checked out who was in the bar. Once he’d confirmed it was as empty as it had been an hour before he arrived, he scooted closer to the bar, eyes wide.

“As much as I hate to be _that guy_ ,” Danny whispered, “but have any of us seen Matt and Spidey in the same room?”

“Matt introduced us to Spidey,” Luke countered immediately.

“Did he really?” Jessica replied, challenging his memory. “Or did he just point Spidey to us when we all thought Matt was dead?” Luke made a face.

It hadn’t been the best first impression, nor one that inspired confidence. During the two slow years after Matt’s supposed demise, the three of them had camped out in Alias Investigations, trying to coordinate opposition to the rise of smaller ninja factions in New York City.

Then, talking a mile a minute about assassins and used car salesmen, Spider-Man had swung in through the open window, landing right on top of the map they had been using to strategize their approach. He’d had a broken nose, a mask pushed up to his cheekbones, and a sliced up suit, and he’d seemed genuinely _peeved_ at their surprise and aggression.

Despite the partial face exposure—and the fact that she’d even had to step in and help him set his nose—she’d walked away from that experience knowing nothing particularly distinguishing about their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. That is, nothing other than the fact that he was white and probably under the age of thirty. Nothing that could eliminate Harry Osborn from the pool of potentials. She hated that she hadn’t had the foresight to take a picture, and that she’d been frazzled enough by everything that she didn’t rule out Matt from the get go.

Right now, though, Luke was scowling, not impressed with this new line of thought. Spider-Man wasn’t Matt Murdock.

Conversely, Danny looked like he was warming up, counting off reasons on his hand. “Matt’s got the moves. Matt knows all of the same players. He knows this city more than anyone, and we know he’s fearless and reckless. And if anyone we know _could_ pull off two secret identities, it’s Matt.”

“That’s bull. I don’t believe it.” Luke set a new glass on the counter in front of Jessica with more force than necessary. It wasn’t a refill, though. It was water—on the rocks, even, but still just water.

Right. They were hitting the warehouse in Harlem. She needed to be sober to deal with that new gang of drug traffickers. Or, at least, less drunk. Jessica took two gulps of it before pressing the cool glass against her cheek, letting Danny and Luke’s continuing argument pass her by without comment.

The Defenders—out to protect the neighborhood. Heh. They could barely protect themselves. Her mood quickly soured. She stared at the discarded newspaper morosely.

Her current PI case was going poorly. There were four dead bodies on her conscience, and she was nowhere closer than she had been when she started. Worse, all signs pointed to Oscorp, and her last lead had just given her the middle finger. And now there was a slim chance that the Defenders’ last spider-themed Hail Mary was sitting at the top of Oscorp?

This case was wrapping up to be a cold one, and she could barely stomach the idea that maybe Spider-Man knew about it all along. Maybe it was finally time to pull in the Defenders after all. Unlike organized crime, murders weren’t usually their scene. But maybe it should be.

Her phone chirped under her hand. Phones chirped twice more—once to her left and once straight in front of her.

“Speak of the devil,” Luke commented. “Or the spider.”

Spidey had sent the Defenders a group text: _New kid on the block. Who’s down to pound? #thatswhatshesaid #34 thstreet #doitforthed(d) _

Attached to the text was a blurry picture of a man perched on a flying hoverboard. Jessica squinted at it. The freak was wearing green armor, which would have been fine, but his mask was also done up like a horrific Halloween decoration. It had a mouthpiece too, jutting outward and fixed in a permanent scream. It was unsettling, and she worked with a guy who used his Catholic upbringing to terrorize the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Well, that’s an awfully convenient entrance,” Danny said, as if far away.

Distracted, Jessica lifted her head in time to watch a man in red emerge from the backroom of the bar. He prowled the length of the establishment.

“I’ll see you there,” the Devil growled as he passed. Once at the front door, he paused and turned, leveling at them a smirk that was 100% Matt Murdock. “But will you know it was me, I wonder?”

Fucking eavesdropper. The door jingled on Matt’s way out.

“Dickhead,” Luke breathed. He rounded the bar, pulling a jacket over his yellow t-shirt. “Come on, let’s go. We owe Spidey for the Murphy incident.”

There was grumbles all around as Jessica and Danny vacated their stools. No one wanted to be reminded of the Murphy incident.

The warehouse in Harlem could wait.

 

-

 

New York’s newest whack job had interesting tech. That was the flimsy excuse Captain America had used to drag Tony into this mess. And it had worked—the first time. The glider was interesting. The bombs were fascinating. And really, how many villains combined chemistry and biotechnology with weapons engineering? Three completely different sources of expertise there; Tony smelled genius at work. That it was villainy too was unfortunate but still no less interesting.

So yeah. Tony came for free the first time to ogle the goods. He wasn’t afraid to admit it.

Tony came the second time for far different reasons. The bad guy gave every indication that he was Iron Man’s kind of villain—dangerous technology, world changing motives, and private backing with deep pockets. Instead, though, who did he go after? Who did he fixate his beady yellow eyes on?

That’s right—Tony’s favorite superhero. Not. Fucking. _On_.

New York’s newest whack job was dangerous, and he needed to be stopped. Full stop. Anything less was unacceptable.

Tony was not surprised the Defenders rolled up to this one—34th street bordered Hell’s Kitchen, and Daredevil was known for micromanaging his territory. That he brought his friends was a little more surprising. Then again, the Defenders were doing better these days at showing a unified front. Tony had a feeling it was only because it was a front not aligned with any other faction in New York. A spiteful alliance. He could get behind that.

Steve barely needed to shift their strategy to corral the freak into Hudson Park. The Defenders slipped in with ease, like modular parts into a well-oiled machine—necessary parts, even. After all, there were only a handful of Avengers representing today, none with the mobility to take the guy on his hoverboard—except for Tony himself, of course, but Steve was trying to minimize property damage. Tony was stuck on recon and civilian detail. There were a lot of idiots out, trying to catch content for their social media. When he fried their phones with a targeted EMP, Tony felt the very opposite of guilty.

Spidey showed up. Usually, this was a good thing, a sign that the fight was taking a more positive turn. This time, though, he stepped in without knowing the strategy and wrecked it. In seconds, he’d closed up the last bit of space left between them and the bad guy, sending the unfriendly green menace flying through an adjacent building.

They set up a quick perimeter, hauling ass to get there in time. But the villain was already gone. Hands on his hips, Steve stood just outside the bed of rubble and glass where the guy should have been. He stared down at the mess, jaw jumping slightly. His cowl was off, crumpled in his left hand.

Sensing the direction of Steve’s ire, Tony hastily backed out of the building, taking it upon himself to go back outside and deal with their erstwhile free agent. See? Tony could do teamwork. He was great at it. Phenomenal, even. Suck it, SHIELD therapists.

On the street, Spider-Man was crouching on top of a light pole, fingers flying over the screen of his phone. He was completely oblivious to the eyes on him, the discreet—and not so discreet—flashes of cameras in his direction. His lens were compressed to tight slits as he dealt with whatever was on his phone.

Tony sighed. He didn’t know where to start. He genuinely liked the kid. He saw a lot of himself in the guy. Spidey was a down and dirty inventor, like he was. The kid was whip sharp—smarter than most people thought—and not afraid to use his intelligence to his advantage. He was good, too. Kind. Friendly. Bit of a smart ass at times, cheerfully chirping and teasing his way through a fight, but Tony couldn’t complain about that without a bit of hypocrisy.

But damn was Spidey a hard nut to crack. The mood swings on this kid were intense. One day, he’d kid and joke with the rest of them. The next, he was silent and asocial, maintaining distance between him and all others he might have called friends or allies. Tony didn’t know what kind of trauma Spidey was holding close to the chest to have such wild good and bad days, and if any of that tied into his decision to don spandex and swing around the city like a man seeking his own death.

Today was a good day, though; Spider-Man even waved. At Tony’s approach, he hopped off the light pole entirely, landing lightly on the ground. “Gotta do something for my loyal Instagram followers. Selfie with Stark?”

Spidey pivoted, putting his back to Tony and sticking his phone out. Tony automatically leaned in and smiled for the camera. His helmet was down. It wasn’t going to be his best pic. The new villain had lobbed an incendiary grenade at his face when he was looking elsewhere. His plate had protected him, but the new material he’d upgraded to for its flexibility had given up some durability in the process. He had a shiner and a busted lip.

When Spidey looked back at his phone, he laughed delightedly. “Yeah! That’s a good one.” He tapped quickly over the screen of his phone. “Did you get him?”

“No. And you know Cap’s gonna want a debrief because of it,” Tony commented casually—maybe too casually, because this made Spidey look up. Tony grinned awkwardly. “More importantly, I would really like you to be there. Please.”

 _He looks up to you,_ Steve always said. _Use it to your advantage._ Tony wasn’t a stranger to the effect he had on people, but damn could Steve make him guilty about it without even trying.

The lens of Spider-Man’s mask widened a bit; there was a slight hitch to the motion. Tony itched to get his hands on it, improve it. He had a prototype in his lab already, and he was working on making it react to the constriction of Spidey’s pupils rather than—he guessed—the widening of the kid’s eyes. It would work so much better for him, especially if he really did have the enhanced senses Tony suspected he did.

“Mr. Stark-” Spider-Man started to say. Then the phone in his hand made a series of beeps. The kid swore softly at whatever came up on the screen. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” he said, walking backwards. “Have Cap send me a form or something!”

“Webs, you really should-” Spider-Man was up and over a building before Tony could finish his sentence. Tony let him go without following.

Maybe the problem wasn’t that Spidey was like him, but rather that Spidey was too much like him. _Has issues with being a team player_ was likely a SHIELD file footnote they shared.

Great. Steve was going to be pissed. Again. Tony sighed and went back into the building. Agents were all over the place, securing the area. The Avengers had already dispersed—Defenders too. Only Steve was left, and he was standing ramrod straight where Tony had left him.

He turned his head at the sound of Tony’s footsteps. His voice was grim. “I can’t believe Spider-Man was so flippant about this after what happened last time.”

“Defensive mechanisms come in a lot of forms,” Tony commented sagely. “Drinking, fighting, fucking, humor-”

Steve cocked his head. “Who is your therapist again?”

“-and flippancy.” Looking at the agents briefly, Tony leaned in closer to Steve, pitching his voice low. “To be honest, I’m not sure Spidey even knows what happened last time. Completely, anyway.”

“That’s what happens when you skip _yet another debrief_ ,” Steve said mercilessly, but the frown between his eyebrows eased as he chewed on that. Steve was always good at mulling things over and being fair.

It had been a Quiet Spidey Day that first round with their new flying pal. The hero hadn’t used his webs once, and he’d taken out the hired goons Cap pointed him at with worrying violence. He’d only spoken once, commenting on the stench of blood, his voice low and raspy like he was getting a cold. Then he’d backed off, disappearing in the shadows.

Overall, it had been a quick assignment. New York’s newest weirdo had taken them through a market on a high speed (and worryingly low) chase. By the time they’d reached the end of the stalls, the green Gremlin reject had disappeared. All there was left had been a wooden box in the final stall, engraved with a cartoon depiction of the very man they’d tried to capture.

Even though FRIDAY had detected no bombs, they’d erred on the side of safety, and they’d had the whole market evacuate instead. Tony had never had so many people throw fish at him before, and he’d spooked a whole group of Japanese fishermen on accident in his early days as Iron Man.

Being the most armored of all the heroes who’d shown up that day, Tony had taken point and opened up the package. He’d stood there for a very long time by himself, trying to understand what he was looking at.

On the lid, a simple message: **_breaking my heart, little SPYDER._**

In the box, a withered, bloody organ—sliced open, peeled back, and pinned for all to see.

Three weeks later, SHIELD still hadn’t figured out where the heart came from, but it was definitely, certainly human.

In the present, Steve finally sighed, shoulders sagging. His hands loosened on the shield just a tad. “That felt uncomfortably close to a recon mission. That man wasn’t seriously engaging us.”

“Yeah, I got that impression too,” Tony said. He itched his swelling face. “What are they calling him?”

Next to him, Steve shifted slightly. His mouth flattened. He looked up from the rubble with an unhappy expression.

“The Green Goblin.”

“Huh. Cute.”

**-**

In one of two small supply rooms on the 47th floor of Oscorp Tower, a hard won, choked out gasp broke the ringing silence. Wade’s mouth pulled into an unseen grin behind his mask. Oh yeah. He so loved it when a plan pulled itself together.

Oh, hey. Hey you. Reader. How’s it hanging? To the left? Hah! _Dick jokes._

For Wade, well… life was good. Life was great, even. Life was looking up for good old Deadpool!

…hm? What was that? You want evidence? Fuck you for being so genre and source material savvy!

This was one of the better universes, okay? First of all, Wade was flush with cash. He had oodles of money. His poor impulse control was not forcing him into a life of homelessness and destitution every other month, thank you very much. And maaaybe that was mostly because he forgot many of his accounts and passwords? Whatever. They were there, and that was what counted. He could figure out the deets whenever he wanted, so there. Stop judging.

Also? He had a bombass apartment in Chinatown! No dead bodies or rats or black mold in that one. It was newish, lightly furnished, a “gift” from a previous tenant. The only fly in his custard was a landlord with a horrific gambling problem who was willing to rent out prime real estate to red-clad citizens who showed their face around the building—like, a lot. Seriously. The guy was goddamn pushy about Wade being seen coming in and out of the building all the time.

Oh, and another thing! Did you know Wade was also a card-carrying member of the Avengers nowadays? Yeah. Bars had certainly lowered. Even so, he was a truly “valued member of the superhero community” in New York. Juuuust ignore the ‘reserve’ part on that card—he certainly did.

He was keeping busy too. As far as assignments went, he was still getting new ones on the regular—interesting ones that still meshed with the new reputation. He had even been offered a super lucrative (but boringly exclusive) corporate assignment with a lot of dineros attached, and every time he demurred, they just upped the price. It was super!

Hell, if he ever did decide to be monogamous with a multi-billion-dollar company, he probably _would_ go with Oscorp. Well, he would if he wasn’t 99.9% sure Oscorp was secretly evil. After all, companies didn’t become an international success without destroying a few lives in the process. Nope, the stank of dead bodies and skeletons in closets hung around the place from top to bottom… metaphorically speaking, of course.

But the bestest part of it was this, right here and right now. In this very supply room!

“ _Like a river flows_ ,” Wade sung happily, “ _surely to the sea_ -”

Gosh, guys. This here, it was the bee’s knees, the icing on the cake, the cherry on top. Something he thought he’d never have again—brief snapshots of gentleness and kindness and two people in utter _like_ with one another, and-

“Screw you, Wade,” Peter Parker hissed between clenched teeth.

-ah, yes. A sweet, grumpy hunny, shaking under his body as Wade _mercilessly jerked him off_. Sweet baby Jesus, what was his life.

“ _Darling, so it goes_ ,” Wade continued singing, ignoring Peter’s interruption, “ _Some things are meant to be._ ” Wade hummed a couple more bars of the song, deeply pleased with himself.

In front of him, the edges of the table were sharp. They left pink indents on Peter’s pale thighs, and Wade, unable to help himself, was crowding Peter into it, bending him forward harder than he meant to. His chin was hooked over Peter’s shoulder, all the better to watch Peter’s cock slide slickly over Wade’s well-lubed bare palm.

There was a delightfully tight vice on Wade’s wrist, twisting and squeezing helplessly. Peter’s other hand was flat on the table, anchoring and supporting his own weight. Peter was shaking his head restlessly, breath heavy—such a pretty picture he made!

Wrapped around his eyes a few times was his thin red office tie. The jaunty bow? All Wade, thank you very much. Wade’d also opened up that precious office shirt before he started, so he had a lovely view of how far his hunny’s blush had scratched down his flushed chest.

“You d-dick,” Peter swore as Wade kept up the sluggish pace.

“I can do this all day. Really. My schedule is wide open.” Wade pressed a delicate smooch under Peter’s ear. Peter’s cock jerked in his hand. Ooh! New spot, free to exploit. Wade was grinning so widely, his face hurt.

Peter groaned loudly, like he was suppressing the urge to elbow Wade in the throat. Then, surprisingly, he arched his back. He bent just enough so he could turn his head and whisper straight into Wade’s ear.

“You really wanna hear me beg?”

Wade bit down on his lip, suppressing a whimper. His pants were way, way too tight for Peter to pull out the husky voice. That voice was un-fucking-fair. “Don’t tease, sweetie,” he admonished.

Peter thought he was suffering? Ha! At least he had a hand on his dick. Now Wade, on the other hand, was a tightly wound ball of need trapped in a leather, Kevlar, and spandex condom from hell. All Wade could hope for was some quality memories to archive in his spank bank. (He was grateful for every one.)

Peter sucked in a laughing breath. “Hypocrite.” He nosed along Wade’s cheek blindly.

Wade hesitated, scared that his scars would finally ruin this once and for all. Then he humored Peter with a wet, open mouth kiss. He closed his hand around Peter’s bare throat, holding him in place, and Peter cried out.

Peter was so close to the edge, and _shaking_ for it. Wade would give it to him. Wade would give him anything he wanted, really-

Wade’s alarm went off, whistling annoyingly from his phone. He deflated, sighing. He would give Peter anything he wanted… except for more time.

He pulled away abruptly. Peter fell forward on the table, catching himself on his elbows. “And that’s a wrap!” Wade slapped Peter’s ass companionably. “Good effort out there.”

Stunned, Peter let out a long, hissing noise that had no words but was somehow still rude and insulting.

“Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.” Wade shot him a pair of finger guns, winking obnoxiously, but the gesture was lost on Peter. Remembering himself (and his nightmare face and his nightmare skin and his nightmare _everything_ ), Wade quickly yanked his mask back down over his chin, taking an automatic step back from his lovely boy.

Peter was interesting to watch. He could see exactly when Peter’s corporate drone brain flickered on, immediately taking over and drowning out Peter’s orgasm-deprived lizard brain. Oscorp only gave its employees 30 minute lunch breaks, and Peter was a stickler for following the rules. Petey’s job was his number one priority—even Wade knew that.

Even so, Wade couldn’t help but feel a little mean for enforcing the rule. His boy was trembling still, standing and trying to put himself back together so he could go back to work. It was kind of cute. It took Wade all of two seconds to yank his mask back down and put back on his glove, but here Peter was, trying and failing to get his teeny tiny buttons into his teenier holes.

Deciding to help, Wade tugged the trailing end of the bow and pulled it free. He smoothed out the abused tie between his hands as he idly admired the high flush it had hidden from his view. Peter muttered something absurdly polite, like a thank you. Eyes now free, his boy was able to get his shirt situated and his pants back over his hips. He tucked the flaps of his shirt in and reached out wordlessly for the remaining piece of his ensemble.

Wade wasn’t kind. He couldn’t be. Not when Peter shifted so completely from being so present and _engaging_ to being this… aloof person Wade couldn’t touch.

So he didn’t surrender the tie. Instead, he glided up close to his boy, smirking under the weight of those big, suspicious brown eyes. Wade wrapped the tie around his neck, looping it carefully in place. He got in _real_ close to do it, pushing Peter into the table again as he checked the strength of the knot, sliding his thigh between Peter’s.

The immediate result of this was endlessly satisfying. Peter’s eyes were heavy lidded and unfocused. His hands were pressing bruises into Wade’s hips. His mouth was open. Wade wanted to bite and kiss his lips until they were pinker and redder-

But his hunny could see him now, so the mask had to stay down. Had to. That was the only way this porny, beautiful fairytale could continue. No one got a happily ever after ending with a monster, not even Belle—and she was so down to be a monster fucker too. _Respect._

A sharp noise broke the moment. Peter blinked back into awareness, frowning and confused. “A second alarm?”

“Yup,” Wade said, popping the p. He pulled away from Peter entirely, fishing out his phone again to dismiss it. “Now’s the time to jump on the elevator if you want to make that meeting.” Feeling pleased with himself, he swung back to Peter. He froze under Peter’s frown. “What? You said not to interfere with your job. I kept my promises. Five minutes for clean up. Five minutes to run to your next engagement. _You said_.”

Wade was a man of his word. Well, some of his words.

Peter’s mouth pursed lightly. He looked down. Wade took it as permission to close the space between them again. He ran his hands through Peter’s hair carefully until he looked somewhat like the twinky corporate ant he’d yanked into the room rather than a frustrated man who’d been accidentally edged twice during his lunch break and left high and dry. Wade pressed a masked kiss between two frowning eyebrows for good measure.

“I did say that,” Peter muttered finally. “Once.”

“I remember everything you say,” Wade said simply, because it was true.

Peter’s eyes shot up then. Then his face softened. He popped up on the balls of his feet and pressed a glancing kiss on Wade’s cheek.

“Gasp, Petey!” Wade swooned. “Not before marriage! Papa will be _so_ furious.” Wade wiggled away in dismay.

Peter tugged him back, circling his neck with both arms. “Shut up.” After a beat, Wade reciprocated, arms low on Peter’s hips. Peter was smiling, reluctantly, looking up into Wade’s eyes—or eye holes, rather.

Oh boy. Oh _boy_. It was moments like this that had the power to kill him. Really. Just annihilate him. Decimate him from the inside out. Overwhelmed, Wade tucked his mask into Peter’s collar, and Peter let him.

Peter’s chest expanded against his suddenly as he said, “I’m going to be late.”

“Yes, you are.” And because Wade was serious about this in ways he was serious about little else, he detached himself from his grumpy lovely. “Go on, get! Sell some paper!”

Peter shot him a brief, toothy grin before moving towards the door. “This is not _The Office_. Do you even know what Oscorp does?” he asked teasingly.

“Nope!” Wade admitted cheerfully. He flashed Peter a double thumbs up.

Peter laughed silently. Then, with a last lingering look, he left, closing the door behind him.

Hugging himself, Wade rocked back on his heels cheerfully. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Peter was sweet on him nowadays. Ha, what a nerd! With _feelings_. Wade squirmed, delighted at the very thought.

So. Anyway, Reader. Life was great—see? He had a guy, money, an apartment, job opportunities—ooh, and a really, really cool assignment from SHIELD. He forgot to mention that too, didn’t he?

Yup! As soon as he confirmed Spider-Man’s secret identity to SHIELD, life was going to be even better. No more “reserve” Avenger status for him! If he could do something that Tony Stark had been trying—and failing—to do for over ten years, didn’t that basically mean Wade was the next Iron Man? Right? Right.

He had so many ideas of what he was going to do with that suit. Just picture it—Iron Dildo with an iron dildo. Fully erect, 24/7. He was going to jump dildo first into the porn industry, and rake in all the royalties for all the Avengers-themed pornos SHIELD pretended did not exist.

Look at that! _Long term planning._ Maybe Wade would even set up a retirement fund.

Life. Was. Fucking. _Great._


	2. Chapter 2

Peter Parker was in a relationship with Deadpool. A friends with benefits relationship, even. Some days, he himself had to pause and let that sink in a little.

When Peter first met the guy, he would have never guessed that this would be the end result. For starters, Peter was too serious and too intense about the people he cared about. As much as he tried to avoid romantic entanglements in general, casual just wasn’t in his blood.

And yet, here he was. With Deadpool, of all people. Yeah, it was a little weird and a lot out of character for him. In hindsight, though, he knew exactly how it had started. It wasn’t sudden or out of nowhere. No, it was more like watching a slow-moving car crash, one that ended not with twisted metal and ruined lives, but rather with an anticlimactic boop. And glitter.

It was almost ten months and seven executives ago. He’d been assisting his first real assignment, an odious little rat of a man named Sam Gunter.

Gunter had been a real dick to deal with. He’d threatened to fire Peter on the daily. Finally out of training, Peter at the time hadn’t known any better and took him at his word. He’d been a newly minted executive assistant and still had no understanding of how his job worked or who he really reported to. All he’d known was that the word “assistant” meant he needed to assist. Gunter would make him regret this ignorance.

But it was Gunter who brought Deadpool in the building. At this point, Peter was so used to the corporate fishbowl he was swimming in that he was immediately jarred by the introduction of the brand-new interloper—a grinning shark amongst the placid guppies..

Peter didn’t get a proper introduction. Gunter was a dick, Peter was “the help”, and the help should be seen, not heard. So Peter essentially had very little warning before he was crammed in an elevator not just with his very shitty executive assignment but also the infamous Merc with a Mouth.

Of course, Peter recognized him immediately. _Of course_ he did. At this point in time, he hadn’t met the guy on the street yet, but Deadpool was immediately recognizable. He was danger, impending violence, and dick jokes wrapped up in red leather and spandex. The guy was unique amongst the community. Distinctive. Peter just never appreciated how physically distinctive he was until just then.

He was very tall, towering over Peter and Gunter both. He was very large, heavy with taut muscle. And most concerning, he was very, very armed. How the hell security let him up so high without a courtesy takedown, Peter didn’t know.

On top of all that, Deadpool was also extremely talkative. The guy was the embodiment of too much, really.

Peter kept his cool, eyes discreetly trained on the merc in red through the reflection of the gold elevator doors. He sincerely did not appreciate having to keep his back to a known killer. The only thing that kept Peter from leaping out of his skin entirely was that Deadpool was kind of, sort of part of the Avengers? But, see, Peter himself wasn’t. He’d drawn that line in the sand a long time ago. So what did that make Deadpool to him? Friend or foe?

During the slow crawl from the 12th floor to the 47th, the distinction was made for him: Deadpool was an absolute goddamn foe, and not for the usual reasons. Living up to his name, the merc just would _not_ stop talking about the people he’d killed, criminal empires he toppled, or military assignments he’d dominated. It was bad enough that even Gunter stopped paying attention at some point. Instead, he was blatantly ogling pictures of women on Instagram like the creep he was. Meanwhile, eyes up on the ceiling, Deadpool rattled off details of every mission or assignment he had ever been on, thumbs twiddling. He looked almost innocent that way, like a teenage boy rambling about video game achievements that no one cared about.

When the stories finally tipped from the unbelievable to the purely fantastical, Peter finally broke. He rolled his eyes. Swallowing, he tipped his head up, staring at the numbers as they crawled ever higher.

Then long arms looped around his shoulders, squeezing lightly. Without a break in cadence, Deadpool said, “-and where did I lose you, pretty thing?”

Peter froze, body tensing. Delayed, his Spidey senses started screaming danger.

Deadpool’s mouth was against his ear. Peter could hear a smile in Deadpool’s voice, could feel Deadpool’s warm breath against his cheek. He could also feel the loose, careless strength in the arms that circled his shoulders. He knew, without a doubt, that if he didn’t use all of his strength immediately, this was going to be a fight he would lose.

But _Peter Parker_ didn’t fight. Peter Parker talked. Peter Parker assisted. Peter Parker took notes and made phone calls and did performance evaluations. Peter Parker never, _ever_ fought. No, that was Spider-Man’s realm, and this place here—an elevator in the heart of Oscorp—was absolutely not the place for anyone’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

So he stood there, stupid and paralyzed, letting Deadpool hug him as his choices played out in his head. If he didn’t act, he might lose his life. If he did act, he might lose his livelihood.

What actually happened was none of these things; Gunter finally noticed Peter’s situation and chortled meanly.

“Keep it in your pants, Wilson. If you want a twink, I’ll buy you one.”

“I think I want this one.” Deadpool happily rubbed the side of his mask against Peter’s cheek. “He’s prickly. He wants to punch me so hard, but he _can’t_.” He delivered the last word in a cheery falsetto.

Oh, Peter was ready to do a lot more than punch him, he thought darkly. He was going to web Deadpool to the top of the tallest building in New York, and leave him there for the night. Upside down, maybe.

“Come on, Wilson,” Gunter said, oozing his typical oily charm. The elevator door opened. “You know me by now! Everything’s negotiable. Let’s finish the tour. I’m sure Parker has somewhere else to be.”

It was true. Peter was late to a training. And yet, his feet were frozen. He was numb. _Everything’s negotiable_ , Peter’s brain echoed as Gunter stepped out. There was a stomach-churning feeling of his Spidey senses snapping like a deflating balloon, like it was too much for his mutated instincts to process.

For the first time ever, Peter seriously considered quitting. There had to be no lower low than being offered up as a bribe to a serial killer by your kind of, sort of, not really boss. Stupidly, Peter wanted to cry. It had been a rough month, and this right here had all the markers of the straw that finally broke his back.

But it wasn’t after all, because then Deadpool sighed, releasing him. “Your boss is a dick, cutie.”

 _Tell me something I don’t know_ , Peter thought but didn’t say. Instead, he curled in on himself, silent.

A reassuring hand ran through the back of his hair, rough and unexpectedly and weirdly kind. Peter stood stiffly under the pressure—there for two seconds and then gone as Deadpool stepped out of the elevator after Gunter.

Peter just stared at the wide back facing him, eyes darting over the leather and criss crossed katanas. For a second, he could see the Avenger past the mercenary, the hero past the guy with a body count. The good man past the dangerous stranger.

It loosened his mouth. Ten days later, Peter would kick himself, questioning his sanity and logic as Deadpool made his life an interesting sort of hell. But ten _months_ later, Peter would wryly think this was it—the car crash. The anti-climatic boop of two bumpers. And the glitter. Can’t forget about the glitter. 

At that very moment, though, Peter didn’t think anything of it. He simply gave a belated answer to the only question Deadpool had asked of the anonymous corporate drone sharing an elevator with him.

“When you rode into battle on a unicorn. That’s where you lost me.”

Deadpool spun, gasping dramatically. “Aw, you _were_ listening to me!” He winked, lifting a finger to his mouth. “Didn’t specify how I was riding it, did I?” He thrusted his hips in emphasis, which had Peter snorting before he could contain it. The elevator door closed between them.

Peter had decided to chalk it up to just a very weird day at Oscorp. It just showed what he knew, because this had been just the start of a new relationship. Little did he know it, but he had just met the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

See? Casual just… wasn’t in his blood.

 

-

 

There was nothing quite like New York City rooftops at night. The only thing that would make this scene better would be if he could could convince his own doe eyed Rapunzel to climb down his Oscorp tower and play. But in all the months they’d been messing around on the downlow, Petey never once indicated that he would be interested in that sort of thing.

It was okay, though. Wade would take what he could get. And even by himself, New York at night was something else.

Beaming to himself, Wade sucked in a deep breath of the night air. Then he choked, inhaling a cloud of exhaust and dust. Double gag. Damn, it was really a good thing he couldn’t get any more cancer than he already had, huh?

A murmur floated in the air. Wade perked up. “...really shouldn’t be sharing this information with you.”

Another man’s voice rose in the darkness, low and teasing. “Drug traffickers in Harlem? Come on, what could it hurt?”

Wade lit up. Spidey! He jumped buildings and hopped on the dark fire escape to the highest roof on the block, hoping to catch his favorite superhero in the act.

“My face? When Jessica punches it?” Daredevil was saying. “This is in the investigation stage still, Webs. When it looks like her work, we follow her lead.”

Wade chuckled roughly. That this was the only reason why the Defenders still worked went without saying. They respected each other’s own territories, neighborhoods, and expertise, even though they argued about damn near everything else. You didn’t see Jessica Jones elbowing her way into Matt Murdock’s court cases. Nor did you see Luke Cage step to fill Danny Rand’s role of being the village idiot, did you? No. To each’s own.

“That’s fair,” Spidey was saying. Wade popped his head over the side of the roof—finally! Spidey’s red and blue back was to him. Broad shoulders gave way to a lithe, strongly built torso wrapped up in enough tight spandex to make a nun forget her vows.

Spider-Man was slouching casually, still somehow graceful. He was sitting on the side of the roof on the other side of the building as Wade, and Daredevil sat with him. Between them was a demolished and greasy hamburger bag. Wade’s stomach grumbled with jealousy.

“Then what happens when it gets to the gatecrashing stage, huh? I’ll play sidekick.”

“We might need you then,” Daredevil admitted. He was already turning his head towards Wade, tracking his approach. “Their operations are more complex than we thought. They have… interesting benefactors.”

“Well, keep me in the loop, I-” Flinching suddenly, Spidey yanked his mask back over his chin. With less chill than his red clad companion, he snapped his attention to Wade. Wade froze, mid-straddle of the rooftop ledge. Busted!

“Well, that’s my cue to go,” Spider-Man muttered grimly, scooping up the trash.

“Wait! Spidey!” Wade launched himself up the rest of the way, tripping in the process. But by the time he was up on his feet again, Spidey was gone.

Daredevil, on the other hand, was not. He was standing now, facing Wade with his arms crossed over his chest. At least he hung around, like a true bro.

“Don’t read anything into this. You’re kind of between me and my exit point,” Murdock commented idly.

Wade cleared his throat, dusting dirt off of his shins. “Whatever he’s doing with you,” he said without preamble. “I want in.”

He closed the distance between them, stalking up to Murdock with focused intent. A lesser man would have backed away. Murdock, though, he had balls of steel. He dug his heels in and stared Wade down. Or, Wade’s collarbone, anyway.

Were blind jokes back in? He’d have to ask Al.

“Sorry, Wade,” Murdock said firmly. “We don’t need your expertise on this.”

“Come on,” Wade weedled. “I could bring the rocket launchers? The grenades?” The sex appeal?

Daredevil ducked his head, his teeth flashing. “Golly, well, in that case, let me uncomplicate my answer for you.” His fake grin died a swift, hard death. “No. If I wanted a bloodbath, I’d call the Punisher.”

Wade made an outraged noise. “I am so much better than your number one booty call. He’s always so angry about everything.” Wade clapped a hand over his sternum. “At least I’m delightful.”

Murdock muttered something that rhymed with _smycopath_ and stepped around him. Wade followed, like a lost puppy.

“Come on, can’t I come? Pretty please? I promise I’ll be super helpful.” Wade hopped up on the ledge and sashayed alongside Murdock. “I’ll have you know that I am very good at following orders.”

Murdock paused in front of the fire escape. “Weren’t you dishonorably discharged?”

“Naughty orders,” Wade clarified. He slapped his hip and winked at Murdock. “Whips and chains, baby.” Daredevil grimaced. “Not interested in that kind of kink? Ooh, right, you’re Catholic. Should I get on my knees and confess my sins, Father?”

“It would make it a lot easier to kick you in the face,” Murdock commented amicably.

Wade gasped, dropping off the ledge and back on the rooftop. He clapped his hands over his face. “Not my money maker! You’re so cruel—boner, wilting-”

Murdock let out a harsh laugh. “And you wonder why Spider-Man runs from you.”

Wade peeked at him through his hands. “…Do you two talk about me?”

“…Maybe.”

Wade dropped his hands and stomped on the roof. “Then what’s his damage? Why won’t he talk to me?”

“Pretty sure you’re his damage.”

“I knew it!” Wade shouted. He clutched his head, whimpering in distress. Even the “sanitized for wider audience movie!Wade” was too much for Spider-Man to take! They were never ever going to be BFFs at this rate…

All amusement was gone from Murdock’s—no, Daredevil’s—voice. “No one wants a mercenary on their tail 24/7, especially one that’s been paid to do it.”

A cold jolt went through Wade. He stood up straight, staring off over the side of the roof.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Wade was on an assignment. He tended to get destructive when he was bored. But between this assignment and Peter, he’d been very, very occupied. Content. Even considering putting down some roots and staying for keeps.

Wade turned to Murdock. “Listen to my heart,” he said seriously. “I would never kill Spider-Man. Never.” And he would kill anyone who even tried.

“You and I both know that there’s more than one way to injure a man.” Murdock stared at him for a long, hard moment before shrugging, turning away from Wade. “Webs is very good to his friends. Maybe you should start acting like one instead of an enemy.”

Murdock hopped off the side of the roof. There was a clatter of metal as he made his way down the side of the building.

Wade didn’t follow. He hovered in place for a long moment before abruptly dropping to the roof in a seated position. Criss cross applesauce—Daddy’s gotta think. Wade dug his elbow into his knee, pinning his fist under his chin.

Here’s the kicker, gentle reader. Wasn’t Wade being a friend to Spidey after all? Sure, Wade did accept an assignment to find out Spidey’s secret identity, and, yeah, maaaybe that wasn’t cool to do that to his fellow super bro. But wasn’t it better that it was him rather someone else? Someone else who would force a confrontation? Someone who would draw Spidey out by finding and targeting his loved ones?

Hell, Wade’s methods were practically unobtrusive, just shy of putting a quiet ad out in the newspaper. He’d planted himself visibly and loudly where Spidey would see him, but he didn’t make a goddamn move beyond that.

He was being patient and everything. Respectful. Sure, maybe he was forcing the issue, but wasn’t Spidey the one with the power right now? And he’d been exercising it viciously for almost a whole year.

See, Wade liked Webs—respected the hell out of him, wanted to be BFFs with the little dude. He wasn’t about to ruin the guy’s life. But the guy had to make a move. Had to. Maybe Spidey didn’t see the trouble brewing on the horizon, but Wade sure as hell did.

Secret identities were officially out of style. Guys, gals, and non-binary pals of all mutations and power ranges were teaming up with each other and forming alliances, establishing legitimacy with their local power structures—or, conversely, coming out hard in opposition to them. New York was at the epicenter of all this.

And then there was Spidey, clinging to his free agent status and the anonymity of the mask, even among friends. Wade felt bad for him. It couldn’t last. Even Matt Murdock, who would never admit to being Daredevil even under brutal torture, didn’t have much of a secret identity anymore. It simply wasn’t sustainable. Not anymore.

No, Spidey making a choice to reveal his own identity was the single quickest way out of the mess coming towards him. Wade hoped he took advantage of it before SHIELD got impatient and hired someone else, someone who wasn’t watching out for Spider-Man’s best interests.

Meanwhile, Wade would continue to plant himself at the heart of Oscorp, waiting for his favorite superhero to make the right decision.

Who knew Osborns were so damn stubborn?

 

-

 

Peter was having a no good, very bad day today at Oscorp. First, when he walked into work, he got splashed by a taxi with icky, stinky street water. Then he got an email reminding him that rent was due, and Mr. Harper would not be taking any excuses like he did last month. Peter just barely had enough money to cover this expense, but now the loan collector was making ominous visits to his building, even though he’d paid on time this month.

Then he got yelled at by an investor for a project he neither knew about nor saw nor had on hand the budget the dick so desperately desired at that freaking moment. So yeah, Peter was hiding. Not far, just in the lower levels of Oscorp, repatching his shattered ego while trying to figure out how to restructure his budget for the month to stay afloat.

Some things, he could work on, but the investor? Screw that. He was absolutely texting Harry to save him from them. Harry wasn’t the kind of asshole executive that threw his people to the wolves, but that hardly mattered if the investors found him first.

Peter frowned at the screen of his phone. Now Harry was laughing at him. It wasn’t fair. Harry was used to being yelled at. He got paid $90 an hour to be yelled at. If Peter was raking in that much money, he’d be a little more sanguine about it too.

While Peter was pouting at his phone, two women came out of the elevator, chatting stiltedly. Instead of walking past him, like everyone else who’d caught a glance at his morose face, one of them stopped, eyebrows twisted in judgement. She was tan in a way that screamed _recent tropical vacation_ instead of a general commitment to outdoors. Her white blond hair twisted up in a bun, and she was rocking the hell out of a slimming black, blue, and gold pantsuit.

“Uh, you’re disgusting,” she told him bluntly.

From where he was perched on a counter, he blinked at her. He looked down at himself. Maybe she had a point. Peter was eating an entire pizza, folding in half and inhaling one slice after another. In the last few months, he’d gotten in the habit of shoving food down his mouth whenever and however he could. He could never count on his lunch break being used solely for eating lunch—thanks a lot, Deadpool—and he was a growing, enhanced young man who needed five times the calories of his peers.

But that wasn’t something he could just blurt out to a coworker. Instead, he swallowed his current slice. He recognized her. They were work friends three or five promotions ago. Her name escaped him, not standing out in the mental rolodex of names and accompanying pictures. He was usually better at this when there was a theme song.

He went for a risky play. “Hey there. How’s that diet going?”

She was double clasping a kale monstrosity he could smell from the elevator. Parker luck gave him a break on this; his coworker grimaced instead of screaming at him for his assumption. “Horribly.”

Sympathetic, Peter angled his box of pizza at her, giving it a friendly shake.

She held out for about twenty seconds for stealing a slice. “If you tell anyone-” she threatened.

Ah. Beth, he remembered warmly. Her bark was worse than her bite. She worked in Sales, which Peter had assisted with very briefly during his training phase.

“Since when have I spoken to anyone ever about anything?” he teased.

“Oh, I should introduce you,” Beth said, waving at her companion. “Linda, this is Peter. Peter, Linda. Linda’s been here all of… three hours, right?”

Peter hopped off the counter, discreetly wiping off his hands before the two of them did their hellos and how do you dos.

Linda was a full foot shorter than Beth, who was his height—taller in her heels. She had a tiny, pixie-like face framed by curling red hair. She was dressed in a slightly ill-fitting skirt and blouse combo, and she was wielding a brand new employee manual like she might hit someone with it.

“Uh, don’t get used to his face. He’s not usually down here. Executive Assistant III—that’s floors 50 and up.” Beth shared this with a mix of jealousy and pride. Peter’s eyebrows raised at her. She made a face at him. Clearly, _somebody_ had been tracking his promotions…

Meanwhile, the newbie was looking him up and down in a way that made him adjust his attitude so it read gay rather than bisexual. He didn’t feel bad about it. One hard won lesson of his 27 years was that being unapproachable to the right people could literally mean the difference between life and death—for Spidey, at least. 

For Peter Parker, it was a mixed bag—people approached him whether he liked it or not. Not that he thought Linda was one of those life or death situations, mind you. She was a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. Not even a shiver of awareness from his Spidey sense.

Linda eyed him neutrally. “Word around the water cooler says you’re the friendly neighborhood executive assistant.” Peter tried not to wince at the wording, especially when her smile didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Any chance you can mentor me so I can ride on your coat tails?”

Therein lay the most common misconception about his job. His position was a statistical anomaly, but not exactly a lucrative one. He was pretty sure Norman’s personal cleaning staff made more than he did. And yet, the rareness of his position made it coveted, for whatever reason. Probably politics.

Oscorp employed over 500,000 people worldwide. Only 900 of them worked in the main corporate office in Manhattan. Peter was one of the lucky ones. To add to the statistical improbability, Peter was just one of a department of twenty whose sole purpose was an unsettling twist of a normal company’s personal assistant—if your personal assistant reported directly to your CEO, that is.

All of that might make it seem like Peter had Norman’s ear. In reality, Peter really only had his actual PA’s ear. He hadn’t had an individual meeting with the CEO in eleven months. He didn’t get any perks. Just a decent wage, a really, really focused job description, and the perpetual feeling that all he was was a CEO-sanctioned narc.

“I can mentor you all you want,” Peter commented, “but my department does their own headhunting. They don’t take recommendations.”

Beth was starting to look bored. She checked her Fitbit, muttering something about an upcoming meeting. Beth was never the patient one.

But Linda ignored the social cues. “What qualities do they look for?” she asked. Her knuckles tightened, gleaming white under her pinkish skin.

Peter grimaced, scratching the side of his face. “Flexibility, time management, and organizational skills?”

Linda’s mouth twisted into a shape that was distinctly unfriendly. “So, basically the skills they look for in everyone.”

Beth noticed and stepped in. “It’s a very unique position, Linda. Uh, Peter, he, uh…” Beth, clearly blanking, spun back to Peter, asking him, “How did you explain it, again?”

That was the hard part, wasn’t it? How did Peter describe to normal people what exactly an Executive Assistant really was at Oscorp? Peter told May he helped senior leadership find and eliminate bureaucracy redundancies in a strategic framework to increase efficiency, revenue, and morale. Peter told Wade he came in to fix the messes his executives left, then get them fired—if he could. Peter told his bratty neighbor that his job meant he was close friends with the Hulk, and that the Hulk was only as green as he was because he ate sour little shit heads who played Fortnite all night and screamed at their parents.

Peter granted Linda a practiced smile. “I’m a glorified babysitter.”

“That’s it, that’s the one,” Beth said, tittering. Peter smiled obligingly. Yes, that was the job description that usually got people off his back—friends or otherwise.

But Linda looked disappointed and annoyed. A stormy expression crossed over her face as Peter and Beth chit-chatted about an Oscorp announcement and the most recent press release. They parted soon after that—Beth and Linda to their meeting, Peter to his pizza, phone, and incoming work emails.

A typical and brief work encounter at his Oscorp. Except it wasn’t typical at all.

Peter was on his last slice of lunch when he finally let himself massage his temple. Linda’s image inducer was _bad_. Like, bad enough that Peter wanted to find her real employer and give them a lecture about properly outfitting their corporate spies. It wasn’t fair or kind or right at all.

But who did she work for? Peter would put money on the inducer being government-issued. It had nothing on Stark tech. If it was government tech, she could literally be working for anyone—SHIELD lost a lot of equipment when HYDRA was exposed ten or so years ago. A billion dollars in technology grew legs and walked.

But, seriously, who was her boss? Linda didn’t have the subtleness of a SHIELD spy, nor the skill of a HYDRA plant—though, really, HYDRA was supposed to be long gone by now, if you believed SHIELD. She was impatient, even transparent, so she had to be another actual corporate spy—maybe from HAMMER or AIM again? Those ones were always mildly entertaining.

Those were the usual suspects, anyway. Government bodies, secret organizations, or rival companies. Occasionally, a plucky investigative reporter would sneak their way into the hiring process, but they rarely got so far.

In any case, Inger Sullivan, head of HR, would have her sniffed out in a week, maybe sooner. Peter was already resigning himself to another vague and ominous meeting about “see something, say something”.

The more annoying part in his book was that it wasn’t just paranoia. His instincts weren’t off. He knew new hires—they apologized for everything and clung to their training posse. You usually didn’t see personality flaws until a month in, if not later. But Linda was rude, unfriendly, and itching to get away from everyone else. She was clearly looking for something beyond her shiny, brand new employee handbook, and Peter had no idea what that was.

He shrugged and shoved his last slice of pizza in his mouth. Whatever. If it didn’t touch Harry, it wasn’t his problem.

 

-

 

It was about 6 at night in Hell’s Kitchen. The lock easily broke under Jessica’s hand. She pushed her way in carefully, sweeping her gaze through the dark, open rooms. It was, quite frankly, an amazing apartment, minus the billboard and the slight smell of cats.

Jessica didn’t turn the light on. Instead, she used her flashlight. She scanned the rooms quickly, avoiding the cheap furniture, cheap curtains, and even cheaper coffee, suppressing some envy. Since most of her stuff was either in a box or perched on an overturned produce container, she had to say Matt was one upping her on the home décor front. But this was still clearly a bachelor’s pad.

After doing a brief search of everything else in the apartment, she went into Matt’s room, digging through the nooks and crannies. She found pictures, money, tasers, and an old sai, but not what she was looking for. At least, not until she started looking through the closet. Up on the top shelf, above a row of suits, there was a set of boxes. Most were dusty, untouched, but one was clean with its flat top half-falling, a familiar burst of red flipped over one edge.

Gripping her flashlight between her teeth, Jessica stood on her toes and pulled the whole box down. She crouched, putting it on the ground, and removed the lid.

Spidey’s hollow white eyes stared back at her accusingly.

Jessica blew air out of her mouth, not sure what to think. “Well. That’s it then,” she muttered. Relief and confusion and hurt wound itself up tightly in her head, pounding like a hangover.

Then the lights came on. She flinched, hiding her face.

“Motherfu-” She bit off a curse and her reaction because there was a familiar man in the doorway, casually leaning with a white walking stick between both hands. She settled for glaring at him. “Just because you can’t see the light doesn’t mean you should be a dick and turn it on.”

“Yes,” Matt said calmly, rolling his wrist. “Please, tell me how I should be kinder to people who break into my apartment.”

Jessica was not going to take his crap. She fisted the mask and stood, shoving it into his hand with two quick strides. “What’s this?”

A small smile played around his lips as he felt along the lens. “I plead the fifth.”

“Don’t fuck with me,” she warned him darkly. “Not about this.” She let out a shaky breath. “Are. You. Spider-Man.”

Matt didn’t answer for the longest time. He stared vaguely in her direction as Jessica tried—and failed—not to crumple under the utter ridiculousness of this matter—her question, her excuse for breaking into her very private friend’s apartment without his express permission.

After a beat, his stupid Mona Lisa smile faded. “The guy left a suit with me, Jess,” he said finally, gently. “Don’t read into it.”

Jessica stared at him, searching for the lie in his face. When she couldn’t find it, she backed off. Relief died, but so did the betrayal.

She shoved her hands deep into her jacket. “Fine.” She was so tired. “Do you know his identity?”

“No.”

Jessica believed him. “But you could pick him out of a crowd.”

Matt cocked his head to the side. “Yes. With… preparation.”

“Would you?”

“No.” After a beat, he offered, “I’m sorry.”

Jessica let out a rough laugh and pushed past him. “Whatever.”

He let her go, turning with her. “Do you… dislike Spider-Man?” For the first time that night, Matt actually sounded bothered. “After all these years, I thought… he’s more of a friend, don’t you think?”

Jessica pivoted to face him, flapping her jacket once as she tried to answer that.

Of course Matt wasn’t Spidey. Of course he wasn’t. She should have, must have, had to have seen Spidey and Matt in the same room at least once—stupid, stupid Danny. And stupid Jessica, for letting Danny rile her up.

But, in her defense, Matt had always been weirdly intense about Spider-Man, both protective and dismissive of the younger man. Man never explained himself, especially not in the beginning. He only discouraged them from reaching out to Spidey unless they absolutely had to.

Spider-Man had rolled with it, though. He didn’t die. He grew up, proved himself, became reliable. He helped with the big things as well as the little things. He wasn’t ubiquitous in any of their lives, but he was on hand when things went from bad to worse.

Damn, did Jessica dislike him? How could she? Jessica’s answer should be easy, in the bag.

“He’s… fine.” At the sound of her own noncommittal voice, Jessica rolled her eyes, annoyed. Sure, he was never going to be the epitome of maturity, but he was fine. Chatty, okay. He talked a mile a minute, made jokes out of everything, but he was, over all, fine. That was what made all of this rough and even heartbreaking. Because—yeah, fine—Jessica liked Spidey. Respected him. Kept an eye out for him.

And that was why all of this would have been so much easier if Matt had been lying to them somehow. If they had all been tricked with… inducers or mutant mind powers or something. If Matt had simply been Spidey this whole entire time. Jessica would be ripping him a fucking new one now, not suffering under the weight of a terrible case that kept getting more and more complicated.

Defeated, Jessica sat down on the corner of Matt’s table, knuckling her temples.

“This has to do with your cases,” Matt guessed. Got it in one. “The ones tied to Oscorp?”

“I trust Spidey. I do. He’s earned that.” Jessica lifted her eyes. “But you don’t get to the top of Oscorp by being a good guy.” She shook her head once. “And if Spidey’s not a good guy-”

“Jessica,” Matt said quickly, pulling away from the door. “If Spidey is Osborn, _then Spidey is Osborn._ It doesn’t negate the good he’s done.” Matt hesitated before lifting a shoulder. “Besides, he’s just doing sales and marketing, right? He probably doesn’t know anything about anything, especially anything you’re looking into.”

Jessica smiled faintly. That did sound a lot like Spidey—oblivious to the very end. “Maybe,” she allowed. “But I don’t like it.” And she wouldn’t like it until Spidey took off his mask and talked to her directly, which was never going to happen. That wasn’t the way the guy rolled.

Jessica was distracted from that line of thought by the buzzing of her phone in her pocket. Her contact at the police station was trying to get ahold of her. 

_One of yours?_

Her shitty phone service meant that the accompanying picture loaded in fourths. When she pieced together what she was looking at, she pushed herself to her feet. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

Jessica almost showed him but remembered at the last moment how futile it was. “My last lead just showed up dead in the Hudson River,” she said instead.

“How.” Matt’s question was flat, the Devil entering his tone.

“She said she was going to infiltrate Oscorp herself, with or without my help.” Jessica shook her head sharply, tone bitter. “They sniffed her out almost immediately.”

Jessica looked at the photo again, unable to help herself. Dana Smith had a mess of red curls and a broad, honest looking face. She was tiny—a buck forty, maybe. Her worst flaws were her sharp temper and her keen sense for justice. She came for Jessica while looking for her missing brother, who’d gotten in trouble over the same damn thing.

Now Dana was dead, dead like her Oscorp researcher brother, with a matching ugly purple bloom around her throat.

If Jessica had been better at people, she could have talked her down.

Oscorp was more dangerous than people knew.


	3. Chapter 3

Before Deadpool arrived, Peter had considered his worst threats at work recalcitrant staplers and missing a step on the stairs in his pre-coffee morning haze. Oscorp just wasn’t that interesting on a daily basis—or, at least, the corporate side wasn’t.

He was well trained for many unusual circumstances, of course. In his first few years at the company, he’d received everything from advanced customer service training to a ‘how to respond to a bomb threat’ interactive seminar, and he had thought that was pretty excessive. Then he’d gotten bumped up, and the training was even weirder. By the time Oscorp released him as a fully-fledged executive assistant, Peter had been trained to deal with a lot of extreme circumstances, up to and including his assignment becoming hostile, combative, and violent.

And yet he was entirely unprepared for Deadpool, unique amongst the various occupational hazards not covered by any HR manual.

Sure, nowadays, things were different. Deadpool— _Wade_ —was an exciting blip on his radar, not a threatening one. But there was a time that seeing that red suit inspired nothing but deeply entrenched dread. And why wouldn’t it? Peter had attracted Deadpool’s attention in a way he couldn’t have predicted nor could have ever wanted. He’d frequently despaired that one measly, uninteresting elevator exchange was enough to convince Deadpool that Peter was the most entertaining person in the building, hands down, and he absolutely needed to hit Peter up as much as humanly possible.

The main challenge was the irregularity of it all. With his competing schedules, Peter thrived on predictability—and Deadpool wasn’t predictable. He popped up in the weirdest places, like in the lower parking structure at six o’clock in the morning. Or in a window washer cart during an all hands manager meeting. Or crouching on top of a shelf when Peter got back from his lunch break. Or even in the next urinal in the men’s bathroom.

The timing never made sense either. Peter once went a full ten weeks without seeing hide nor hair of the red clad menace. Then, on the 73rd morning, Peter had been ambushed by a shaken Oscorp guard before he’d even crossed the security checkpoint. Her morning crew had had the misfortune of finding Deadpool taking a nap under his desk, using a Spidey plushie as a pillow—and Deadpool apparently did not appreciate the complimentary wakeup call and bedside service.

In those early days, even just the word ‘Deadpool’ made Peter super paranoid. This was also about the time Spider-Man and Deadpool had “officially” made their acquaintance on the street. Despite Peter’s best attempts at civility, the meeting ultimately had devolved into an all-out kindergarten brawl—slapping hands and everything. And, for the longest time, Peter was absolutely convinced that Deadpool knew his other identity.

But that feeling had eventually passed. Deadpool— _Wade_ —treated Peter too differently than his masked counterpart. When Peter was Spidey, Deadpool was over the top, bombastic, and wildly theatrical. A hyper dangerous, hyper skilled pirouetting fangirl who happened to be armed with more weapons than Peter knew the names of.

But when Peter was just Peter, Wade was… well, still ridiculous, but muted somehow, like their every interaction was a juicy, treasured secret between just the two of them. There was a clique here made of just Peter and Wade, and weirdly, Peter was letting himself get dragged along for the ride. Peter had never been part of an in-crowd before. Spider-Man wouldn’t—couldn’t—be Deadpool’s friend. But at some point, Peter had started really wanting to be Wade’s.

It had started egotistically, sure. There was a whole building of high-powered men and women fighting tooth and nail to make a retainer contract pitch at Deadpool—but Wade only wanted to talk to Peter. Peter wasn’t narcissistic enough to think Deadpool had a thing for him even back then. Wade was just genuinely curious about him. But he acted on it in such an awkward, ham-fisted way. Like an absurdly stubborn five-year old waddling across a busy street to declare friendship with the boy he’d seen in the window of the neighboring house.

Toddler was probably the right image here. Man, Deadpool was a handful. Every day was a new surprise with Deadpool. The guy was friendly, horrifying, and offensive—but always, always entertaining.

But when all was said and done, Peter was just another cog in the Oscorp machine, and his semi-friendliness with Deadpool had not gone unnoticed. He’d been pulled into quite a few meetings about Wade. Despite his high-minded interpretation of his own job, Peter wasn’t blind. He knew Oscorp was mostly out for money, just as he knew Oscorp wanted something from Deadpool.

Peter didn’t approve. Even if Oscorp had the most innocent intentions, it should have been illegal. But it wasn’t. Peter didn’t understand it. He didn’t know why Oscorp kept trying, kept letting Deadpool run rampant in their building. He didn’t understand why Deadpool kept showing up either—what was Deadpool thinking? Selling out to a corporate entity was so not his MO. And yet, he showed up on a regular basis (when he was around at all), letting junior executives fall over themselves, trying to negotiate with him seriously.

And yet, unofficially “minding” Deadpool was less stressful than minding some of his executive assignments. Wade might have been the asshole who swapped out all sugar on every floor of the goddamn sixty story building with salt, but he still wasn’t the woman approving the removal of critical safety features that kept their scientists and researchers from harm. He still wasn’t the guy who framed (and fired) eleven employees over the course of five years to cover his own ass and his own irresponsible decision making. And he still wasn’t the guy who made up three years of fake data to push a product marketed for treating child illnesses.

Wade wasn’t a good guy, but he was trying really damn hard to be a better one. It showed in everything he did.

So Peter didn’t lose any sleep over it in those early days, and, for months, everything was friendly—bromantic, if you believed Deadpool. Deadpool continued to be harmless. People were saved. The world didn’t end. Peter found himself relaxing, even looking forward to cutting himself a piece of humble pie. Spider-Man would reach a hand out to Deadpool and shake it. Any day now, he promised.

Then on hot July afternoon, all the general good will Peter had built up towards the man vaporized in an instant.

It all came back to Gunter. Fucking Gunter.

On that humid summer day, his former executive assignment flagged him down between meetings to have Peter fetch a check from Finance. This wasn’t Peter’s job; they both knew better than that. That didn’t stop Gunter from trying to treat him like a 70’s secretary.

“Walk this invoice to Ross,” Gunter had ordered smugly, handing off a manila folder to Peter.

In the moment, Peter had hesitated. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear the guy—there was eye contact and everything. He eventually took the folder from the man’s beckoning claw, knowing as he did that he was only enabling Gunter’s shitty, bullying behavior. His only consolidation was his knowledge that Gunter’s firing was in progress.

But Ross Pritchett, Director of Finance and Payroll, didn’t process these things. It put a pinched, sour look on his face when he was given something that should have been sent through his army of accountants first. Without fail, it always resulted in something petty, like a delayed reimbursement check or a rerouted supply order or a missing paycheck. As tight as his budget was, Peter had worked very carefully over the last few years to stay on the petty director’s good side.

“You just can email it,” Peter reminded Gunter. “Better use of company resources.”

Gunter’s smirk turned brittle. “Put it in his hands, Parker, or you’ll be begging for food stamps next week.”

Knowing better now, Peter just gazed at Gunter evenly, a Roulette wheel of possible responses spinning in his head. If only Gunter knew how many of those possibilities involved Peter breaking his undersized nose... But that wasn’t a very heroic use of his street fighting ability. Nor was it very characteristic of the persona he was working with here. Peter Parker, the executive assistant, might be a thorn in many people’s sides, but he was a polite thorn, and everyone knew it.

One day, though, he thought wistfully. One day, Gunter was going to get the boot, and Peter was going to be there to see it, knowing it was his work that delivering Gunter’s ass to be kicked. But today was not that day. So, peacefully, Peter just shrugged, walking off with his unwanted errand.

“That’s what I thought, Parker,” Gunter muttered, already on his phone.

Peter made a face. Ass.

Finance was ten stories down—a tiny jaunt in their building’s swift elevator system. Ross was on a call, his balding head barely visible between the horizontal blinds that covered his office window. Even his personal assistant Mischa was gone. Bored, Peter propped a hip against her desk, waiting for Ross to end the private conversation.

Looking casually left to right, Peter flicked open the folder, intent on sticking his nose in Gunter’s newest batch of business. He didn’t feel guilty about it. It was literally in his job description to be nosy, and it was well documented that Gunter liked to favor his friends with corporate contracts over more deserving parties. It was one of the many reasons that he was going to get fired. So. Many. Reasons.

So with a light heart, Peter skimmed through the documents. He didn’t get far before he wished he hadn’t.

Heat flushed through his face and his ears started ringing faintly. Because hot in his hands was a signed and authorized invoice for contracted services from none other than Wade Wilson.

Gunter had won.

This had to be a joke! He couldn’t believe Oscorp would really hire a mercenary, never mind the fact that executives had been pursuing the guy for months, and never mind the fact that Gunter himself had personally been courting Deadpool for such a thing for weeks. Sure, Oscorp wanted to hire Deadpool to keep other corporations from doing the same (schoolyard logic, if you asked Peter), but the fact that _Gunter_ was the one who finally got that prized signature just felt… bad. Gross. Hinky.

Gunter was a bad egg. Gunter was the kind of executive Peter’s whole job description was strictly against. In short, Gunter was a bad guy. And Deadpool…

Deadpool was supposed to be _better_ than Gunter.

Upset and unable to process this, Peter dropped the manila folder on Mischa’s desk and fled.

Hindsight stung. The real thing he should have done here—the adult thing—was to talk to Deadpool about it, find out what was going on from the source. Instead of doing that, Peter avoided Wade like the plague. Time passed. Peter grew even more bitter on the topic, nursing some strangely hurt feelings like a dog nursed an injured paw.

And Deadpool even let him do it for a solid two weeks, giving him space. Then, in a 180, he suddenly forced a confrontation, pouncing on Peter during one of his coffee breaks. (Peter would find out later that, to Wade, silent treatment was the worst. He couldn’t take it. He thrived off of acknowledgement, good or bad, and giving Peter space was killing him.)

Anyway, Peter didn’t remember much from the confrontation before said pouncing, only that Deadpool had seemed oblivious to Peter’s coworkers fleeing out of the breakroom. He loomed over Peter, one hand on the back of his chair. He put enough pressure on it that it wiggled slightly against Peter’s back. “Tell me what happened. Do you finally Google me?”

As much as Wade didn’t like to be ignored, Peter didn’t like surprises even more. In his mind was the steady drone of white noise rather than the cutting and incisive words he’d practiced while out on patrol or trying to sleep. It left him tongue tied, stupid headed.

“Is that why you’re giving me the cold shoulder like a moody teenager with communication issues?” Deadpool spat, sounding 100% like the teenager he was accusing Peter of being.

“Maybe I did Google you,” he allowed. Then he stood, pushing out his chair and breaking Deadpool’s hold on the chair.

Deadpool let him. There was a strange power in this. Deadpool was annoyed and frustrated, but he was hanging on to Peter’s every word. Like his word meant something, maybe.

And that? That _infuriated_ Peter. A strange heat gripped him, squirming and ugly, and all he could think of was the day they’d sprinted away from security after Deadpool’s last batch of shenanigans, how they’d holed themselves up in a breakroom like this, and laughed and laughed…

The memory sat heavily on him. God, Peter was such an idiot. Trusting Deadpool, of all people…

“Maybe it was your past. Or maybe it was finding out your factory fresh morals had a quarter mil price tag.”

That was it. That was the source of those hurt feelings. Peter felt betrayed.

He felt betrayed, and it was so, so stupid. Deadpool wasn’t part of his network of super friends. He wasn’t ever going to be a part of the Spidey Clone Army. But there had been potential there. A shared frequency, a compatibility. Over the last few months, it had felt like another piece of the puzzle that snapped in place. Only now, he knew that puzzle piece was a moldy cracker named Wade Wilson.

And all that? How much of that was on Deadpool? How much of that was on Peter instead for expecting too much?

See, here was the premise: If the Avengers, the Four, the Defenders, the X-Men, and Deadpool were all around and present and active and working together, then Peter didn’t have to be Spider-Man 24/7. Hell, he didn’t even have to be Spider-Man even once a day.

And if he didn’t have to be Spider-Man at least once a day, then his whole world would open up. Peter could actually be that corporate drone everyone thought he was. He could ignore the calls for help. He could put in the time to get those extra promotions and pay raises. He could pay off all of those loans he got to help cover May’s treatment. He could hunker down and finish his undergrad studies. He could mend all those relationships he’d stonewalled when he realized he had two full-time jobs.

He could be exactly who everyone thought he was: normal Peter Parker, whose only concern was making money.

Deadpool’s about-face just highlighted his stupid, selfish, _worthless_ attempt to have his cake and eat it too. No matter what he did, he was letting someone down. No matter which mask he wore, people were going to die.

But that wasn’t anyone’s fault but Peter’s. It was Peter’s responsibility to find a balance between both of his identities—before the crippling weight of his guilt killed him, anyway. Deadpool didn’t—shouldn’t—play any role of that. But it still stung. On some level, Peter really wanted him to.

Because, damnit, Peter had… liked Deadpool. A lot. With the jokes and the sarcasm and the… flirting. _Damnit._

Proud that his flat, uncaring delivery transmitted nothing of his inner turmoil, Peter tossed his trash in the proper can, spinning on his heel to leave. And, in the corner of Peter’s eyes, Deadpool flinched. Peter almost didn’t see the wounded look etched perfectly through Deadpool’s all too emotive mask. Almost.

Oh, hindsight. There were so many things Peter would have done differently that July.

But maybe he didn’t need to. Deadpool, as Peter would learn, wasn’t in the habit of letting things die with a whimper. He was an escalator, a confrontational man down to his very core. He’d had a rebuttal for Peter that day in less than three hours, one that would alter their relationship forever.

The pivotal part had happened, as most things did with them, in an elevator. Surrounded by coworkers, Peter had stared straight ahead at the glossy reflection of the closing doors. Glum, he was trying to decide between ramen or ramen for dinner when a katana pierced between the doors, the point mere inches from his belly.

There wasn’t a single itch from his Spidey sense, so, stupidly, he stood in place, even as everyone around him yelped or screamed, plastering themselves to the walls of the elevator.

Sensing the obstruction, the elevator hitched slightly and stayed in place. Head cocked, Peter watched the blade twist and turn as the elevator doors were forcibly leveraged open.  On the other side, Deadpool was panting, like he’d sprinted down the hall.

He was a little disheveled, for a man covered from head to toe in spandex, leather, and Kevlar. He had one sword gripped in his left hand. The other was clamped tightly over a thick stack of semi-wrinkled paper.

Peter could almost feel a collective sigh of relief from the people around him as Oscorp employees with too much exposure to certain mercs relaxed at the familiar man engaging in familiar shenanigans that would get anyone else thrown in a padded cell.

But when Deadpool spoke, his words were dark, mirthless, and entirely unlike their company’s unofficial mascot. “If you don’t want to be a part of this conversation, get out.” When the people in the car just stood there, frozen in place, Deadpool took a step back, winding his sword arm impatiently at the hallway. “Go on, go. Get!” Peter would like to say that Oscorp employees were made of sturdier stuff, but his coworkers—granted, no one he knew by name—fled the elevator car like rats escaping a sinking ship.

Figuring there was no harm in trying, Peter made as if to follow the last person out. Then a palm planted itself over Peter’s stomach, pushing him to the back of the car. In the same movement, Deadpool smoothly slammed his sword back home behind his back. “Not so fast. You’re a required party.”

He stepped through the doors, instantly taking up too much space. Peter backed up automatically, dropping into a loose stance in the middle of the car. Tiredly, he wondered how many more times he was going to get ready for a fist fight with Deadpool in an elevator. If anyone asked, why yes, Peter did fight dirty.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Deadpool commented, eyeing him knowingly. Peter would be very surprised if he did. “‘Does he need to go up or does he need to go down?’” Before Peter could come up with a response, Deadpool was interrupting him. “Trick question! I always go down.”

Peter blinked at the finger in his face. Then it registered. “That wasn’t even remotely close to what I was-” Peter started to say automatically, like everything was normal between them. Then his lungs struggled for air when Deadpool backed him up against the wall, relentless in his invasion of Peter’s space.

Peter backpedaled instantaneously. Where was fist fighting Pete now? Probably in a high school gym locker, along with his dignity.

Resigned, Peter allowed it, mostly because there wasn’t much room left to go. Deadpool stopped finally, inches away, feet shoulder width apart. His chest was swelling indignantly, so much so that Peter needed to keep his back touching the wall to avoid touching him. It didn’t help that Peter’s brain was screaming at him, warning him that the danger level was rising.

Even with all that, Peter didn’t feel a drop of real fear until Deadpool unholstered one of his guns.

“Deadpool-” he choked out, shocked. Deadpool lifted his finger at him again. Then he pointed his gun at the elevator camera and fired off three rounds.

Peter didn’t have a chance to muffle it; the noise ripped through his sensitive ears, almost crippling him. Peter thought he might have screamed. Deadpool certainly looked spooked enough for that to be true.

It took a hot minute for Peter to even be able to think through the agony. The second he could, he ripped into Deadpool: “ _What the fuck is wrong with you?_ ” Peter snarled, head ringing.

Deadpool lit up. “Ooh, this author lets you swear.” Popping out his hip, he wagged the gun between the two of them. “This is an A to B conversation. No other letters allowed, especially none of the O-S-C-O-R-P variety, ja feel?”

“Deadpool,” Peter rumbled, and damn, did that word come out horrific, out from somewhere deep in his chest, and promising pain. He lurched forward threateningly, only to stop when Deadpool thrust his wad of wrinkled papers in Peter’s face, almost like a belated shield.

“Read it,” Deadpool said.

Peter pulled back just enough to see the binding on it that indicated confidentiality. Well trained, he spun it back to Deadpool. “I’m not allowed to,” he said automatically. Then, in the seconds of silence that met this declaration, he considered the stupidity of saying no to a lawless merc who still had his gun hand free and unwebbed.

True to form, Deadpool let out a noise that was somewhere between an angry elephant trumpet and an exasperated wheeze. Peter warily reconsidered his stance, especially when Deadpool’s shoulders suddenly rose, bulging with tension. When Deadpool spoke again, it was clearly through gritted teeth. “I am a private citizen, talking to another private citizen of my own accord about my own damn legal business.” He pushed the contract back at Peter, harder this time. “Fucking. Read. It.”

Peter reluctantly took it back. Glowering and muttering to himself, he flipped through it.

The language wasn’t new. It was a standard independent contractor agreement. It had a long section on liabilities—in that Oscorp accepted none—and a thorough non disclosure agreement. Peter had read plenty of these in his time at Oscorp. There was a point where all the legalese blurred together, and he found that point on page two of every Oscorp contract. Deadpool’s contract? No different.

But no other contract was as marked up as Deadpool’s was. There was red crayon everywhere, littering the document with comments and little nonsensical drawings and memes. Peter could sense Legal’s twitching eye from a mile away. They weren’t used to people reading all the terms and conditions, and they definitely weren’t used to people having opinions about their standardized documentation or their stilted language. 

When he got to the legality bit that stated that Deadpool was revoking all rights to arbitration, he almost smirked at the childish _Sure, Jan_ written over it in 40-point font. Peter felt an unwanted surge of fondness for Deadpool; he squashed it mercilessly.

He got the meaty stuff around page 20—the actual assignment from Gunter. Short term contract, one off services, payment for services rendered, yada yada. Feeling nauseated, Peter read slower, absorbing the sentences one at a time.

Then he read it. Then he read it again, scanning for euphemisms. Hidden meanings. Wink wink, nudge nudge. Murder. Assassination. Extortion.

“…Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Deadpool snapped nastily.

Peter turned away from him, digging deeper into the contract. Gunter had tasked Deadpool with visiting one of their closed branches overseas to retrieve some physical assets. The assets were nothing, really. Computers, desks. Certain hard drives and certain servers were identified as optional but objects of interest. Should they be obtained, Oscorp was willing to fork over an extra $500 for Deadpool. Each.

The government of the largely mutant country had swapped parties to one that was hyper nationalistic—and very anti-American. Apparently, gangs were making it difficult to approach the building. Deadpool had been tapped, and not just for his skills, but also his notoriety amongst other mutants. It took a special kind of stupid to go up against Deadpool—or so was the conventional wisdom. And yet, whoever wrote this contract specified non-lethal force, not the typical blood baths Deadpool was infamous for in the past.

Deadpool, in turn, underlined this request in red, but otherwise kept it free of his obnoxious commentary.

And no matter how Peter read it, there was nothing in the contract that implied or stated anything that would make Iron Man call for Deadpool’s head or for Deadpool to at least get kicked off the Avengers.

It was legit. No murder. No assassination. No extortion. Much to the contrary of Peter’s knee-jerk assumptions.

Wincing, he peeked up at Deadpool. The man had entered the elevator with all the exuberance of someone who was ready to kick the shit out of another human being. But while Peter had been reading, all that stripped away like the lie it had been. Deadpool seemed smaller, shoulders rounded, stance defensive, one foot kicked back like he was just ready to bolt.

He was radiating hurt so hard, Peter hurt more in sheer empathy. And it was all Peter’s fault.

Peter sucked in a deep, slow breath. “I assumed-”

“You know what they say about that,” Deadpool said quickly, arms crossing over his chest. “Ass out of you and you.”

Despite himself, Peter engaged him. “So the m-e is silent?”

“Nonexistent,” Deadpool announced, tipping his chin up. His fists settled on his hips in a vaguely heroic stance. “It’s a concentrated effort by the education mafia. You have been brainwashed!”

He chatted a bit more about the shadowy cabal that tainted the public school system, appearing to warm up to the topic. Peter sensed a tangent, a lovely yellow brick road they could skip down until they were miles and miles away from this conversation—and back to normal.

But Deadpool’s contract weighed heavily in Peter’s hand, and the guilt would not let him take such an easy way out.

“-and they say it’s about school choice, but what it’s really all about is lining the pockets of billionaires, see-”

“I’m sorry.”

Deadpool flinched away from him, teeth clicking together behind his mask. His shoulders slumped. His long arms dropped until they were hanging limply at his sides. Peter winced as he received further proof of how very severely he had hurt his friend’s feelings.

Peter rushed to fill the void of Deadpool’s silence. “I know your personal life is your own, but I… I just-” Deadpool started itching the back of his head, looking down and avoiding Peter’s gaze. “I guess some part of me got really invested in you being a superhero?” Deadpool’s itch slowed down. His deeply emotive mask became utterly inscrutable under Peter’s still amateurish gaze.

Peter’s Spidey senses had quieted after the ridiculously unnecessary blow to Oscorp’s security system. But now they suddenly pulled tight, vibrating like a single plucked violin string. Peter wasn’t sure what that meant. More quickly, he said, “I jumped to conclusions. I misjudged you. And, in doing that, I was a complete ass. I admit it.”

The intensity of that plucked string sharpened, especially when Deadpool stopped itching his head entirely, staring at Peter with unblinking white eyes.

“In the m-meantime,” Peter stammered. Hating himself, he tried again. “In the meantime, how can I make it up to you?”

Peter was fully prepared to make concessions. Like looking the other way when Deadpool got bored and finally commandeered the copy machine to take photocopies of his ass. Or like feeding him tacos for a year, which was his usual threatened winnings from all the bets Peter refused to take. There was nothing Deadpool could say that would surprise him.

Deadpool blinked finally, head cocking to the side. “Kiss me,” he demanded softly.

Okay. Peter lied.

“W-what?”

Deadpool didn’t answer. Instead, he shuffled forward, slowly and with intent. There was that plucked string feeling again. It wasn’t… unpleasant. But Peter’s knees were weak and shaky, and his face warmed. He backed up until his shoulder blades hit the wall again. Hissing slightly, he looked up at Deadpool. Deadpool bent down slightly to look at him.

They stood there for a long moment, nose to nose. There was a slow sweep of those white, inscrutable eyes up and down Peter’s body. Peter desperately needed oxygen. His breath trapped tight and high in his chest, and he absolutely did not know how to deal with this or even his feelings about this. If Deadpool kissed him, would Peter push him away? Would he even want to?

Deadpool’s eyes lingered a bit on Peter’s open mouth as he swayed closer. Then, suddenly, they jerked up to his face.

Then Deadpool guffawed in his hands like a huge child, intensely gleeful all of a sudden. “Two bros chilling in an elevator, five feet apart ‘cause they’re not-”

“Stop,” Peter hissed, annoyed now. He crossed his arms over his chest. He felt hot and cold. Relieved and disappointed.

Still snickering, Deadpool flapped a dismissive hand at him. “No kissing, no kissing. Maybe a hug? No, too intimate. No homo, yo.” Deadpool’s voice deepened in a blandly heroic imitation. “A manly, manly handshake! Then we’ll be even, Steven Seagal.”

Deadpool offered his fingers to Peter with a smirk. Peter stared at them blankly before edging his hand up to meet them.

It was probably the most uncomfortable, wooden handshake Peter had ever participated in. He was almost expecting to be zapped by a buzzer. He was almost disappointed when he wasn’t.

Instead, Deadpool was treating him to a wide, wide teasing smile. No longer hurt, Deadpool was giggly and amused—at _Peter_. Like Peter was barely handling this. Like Peter couldn’t take a guy being interested in him. Like Peter was being adorable in his completely heterosexual panic.

Peter’s eyes narrowed to slits. He tightened his grip on Deadpool’s hand, enough to make him squeal. Then he pulled him in and went for Option B, enveloping Deadpool in a hug.

“I can handle a hug,” he groused into the leather covering Deadpool’s collarbone.

Deadpool didn’t seem to know what to do with this, standing stock still. Then, there was the barest bit of pressure on his ribs, like gloved fingers were hovering at his side, not quite daring to touch.

Peter sighed. As scary or entertaining or horrifying as Deadpool could be, he was still just a man, and a lonely one too. And a friend Peter had hurt. Peter hugged him just a little bit tighter. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Really.”

Just in case Deadpool hadn’t been serious about the hug option, Peter loosened his hold a bit, pulling away just enough to look at Deadpool. They were nose to nose again. Peter licked his lips self-consciously. His heart throbbed frantically in his neck.

Deadpool audibly breathed him in. His eyes closed. Then a pained look flew over his mask as he rapidly backed up, putting space between the two of them. Huh. Peter had never played gay chicken with an avowed pansexual before. He certainly wasn’t expecting to win.

“Maybe I should stop flirting with you,” Deadpool said in a tiny voice.

Peter was annoyed now. “Deadpool-”

“Wade,” Deadpool corrected, voice husky and rough. Strangely, from his place on the other side of the elevator, he looked forlorn, staring longingly at Peter.

“Cool,” Peter said dryly. “Now I know what name I’ll be screaming, right?”

Deadpool pouted at him. “You could sound more excited about that, you know.”

“That’s the thing about elevator sex, Wade,” Peter said breezily. “Someone always gets the shaft.”

Deadpool giggled at that, sounding surprised at himself. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, sounding a little sad, “you were never supposed to flirt back.”

“If you can’t take the heat, get out of the elevator.”

“Oh, I’m getting out of the elevator. But I’ll be back. You have no idea what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.” Deadpool knocked his fist back against the buttons. Obligingly, the elevator doors opened. Walking backwards out of the elevator, Wade pointed finger guns in Peter’s direction. “Spoiler alert, I’m trouble.”

“I knew you were trouble when you walked in,” Peter muttered.

“2012 T. Swift—noice!” Deadpool fired back at him as he sashayed away.

Realizing what he still had in his hands, Peter hurried to the closing elevator doors. “Hey, Boy Wonder,” he called out. “You forgot your contract!”

Oblivious to the curious eyes of Oscorp employees all around them—certainly the elevator emptying story had made its rounds by now—Deadpool jogged back to him cheerfully. He accepted the stack of paperwork. Smoothing over the worst of the wrinkles, he commented casually, “You’re really beautiful when you smile like that, you know.”

Peter didn’t blush often. But Deadpool—Wade—had a way of pulling it out of him.

Still did, actually.

 

-

 

A blond woman in a white lab coat and pencil skirt walked by the opening elevator on the 45th floor, oblivious to its occupants. Within the car, Harry did a double take, pausing at the sight of long, curling hair. He grinned at his good luck. He bit down on it and let her pass. Then he followed her silently, taking care not to let his heels click too loudly against the polished surface of the floor.

After a few moments, Harry had caught up with her with his longer strides. Clearing his voice importantly, he put on his best posh British accent. “Why, Dr. Stacy! What an astonishing pleasure it is to see you in person.”

Gwen half-turned, hand flying over her blouse. “Oh my, Mr. Osborn!” she exclaimed, her well-practiced southern belle coming out to play. “Far be it from little old me to correct you, but I do believe we’ve met.”

They fell in stride with each other—Harry with his hands in his pockets, and Gwen hugging a tablet to her stomach. They both were beaming at each other.

“As rude as it is, I simply must disagree with you. There is no way I’d ever forget such an enchanting and intelligent creature.”

Gwen wrinkled her nose at him and grinned. “Oh, my goodness gracious. Aren’t you a charmer?”

Harry stopped her with two fingers on her elbow. She looked up at him questioningly as he looked left and right. Then he pulled her behind a corner, out of sight of the floor’s set of cameras. Then he kissed her like he hadn’t seen her for weeks instead of mere hours.

They parted. “Your presentation was amazing,” Harry said in a hushed tone, dropping the accent. “If the Germans don’t bite, they’re criminally stupid.”

“You weren’t even there,” she chided, fixing his tie.

“I conference called in. I heard every word.” He had an advance copy of her presentation from her supervisor as well. Yeah, he knew it was toeing the line of what was and wasn’t okay in their situation. His argument was going to be what it always was—he wasn’t in charge of her hiring or her performance review. There wasn’t a power imbalance here or a breach of trust.

There was just a boy who was really in love with a girl.

“Then… thank you,” Gwen said formally, with a nod. “I appreciate you saying that to me.”

“Don’t appreciate that. That’s nothing.” Harry nudged a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. She smiled up at him, clear eyes warm. “You know I would do anything for you.”

And that…

That wasn’t the right thing to say. Her smile was fading just a little. “Harry-”

Harry’s head dropped. What was it? Too much? Too fast? Too little? He didn’t have the best role models for healthy behavior. Last time he offered to buy her something, they got in the fight. He memorized it all. He even had a whole book of notes by his bed about her and added to it almost daily. Food was okay. Private lab space, not so much. Anything at all? Apparently way, way too much.

Harry bit his lip, pulling away from her. Quickly, he tried to figure out how to spin this out of an argument. Or, worse, “A Conversation”. Harry didn’t have too much luck with those. Harry knew it was his bad. To his significant others, Harry was either too much or too little. He was never just right. 

But the universe cut him some slack today, like it rarely did. Another voice was calling out his name. Harry turned to it, noticing that Peter was standing behind him, hands in his pockets.

“Can we talk?” Peter asked, already frowning.

In direct contrast to his executive assistant’s mood, Harry was practically weak-kneed with relief. Thank God for distractions.

Harry turned back to Gwen and played it up. “Uh oh. Boss is here,” he said in an undertone. He quirked a smile at Gwen, who, thankfully, smiled back. He hadn’t screwed things up too much. “Meet you in the garage at 1? I’ll take you to lunch. My treat.” He tossed her his keys.

Gwen spun the ring around her finger playfully. “If you take too long, I may even take it on a spin,” she teased. She passed him not with a kiss, as was their custom, but a discreet squeeze of his wrist. “Hi Peter.”

Peter nodded. “Hey Gwen.” They watched her go in silence until she disappeared from sight in an elevator. Then they turned to each other.

Peter’s eyebrows were high on his forehead, delivering his commentary on what he had interrupted without a word. What had dodged the line of sight of his father’s security system did not dodge the hawk-like gaze of Harry’s own executive assistant. Harry winced and started walking the opposite way.

Peter followed. Peter always followed. Peter was also always friendly to Gwen, judgement aside. Harry had to give Peter some credit for that. Then again, the problem was never Gwen. It was always Harry.

Mood souring, Harry stormed into his office, throwing himself into his chair. He rubbed at his eyes, opening them just in time to see Peter quietly close the door behind him. He scowled when Peter planted himself there, like a fleshy guardian gargoyle in a slightly ill-fitting suit. “What?” he barked. He had a staff of ten people who would quail and back off at such a tone. But Peter?

Peter just dove in for the kill. “Do you really need to flirt with her at work? It’s bad enough she’s here.” Harry made a disgusted noise. “People are going to talk, Harry.”

Harry sat up in his chair, fired up. “Talk about what, Pete? She got her on her own credentials, on her own smarts. If people talk, they should be talking about how goddamn qualified she is, and how ready she is to be promoted-”

“You know damn well that’s not what they’re going to talk about,” Peter interrupted firmly. His dark brown eyes were steady, unblinking. “You’re mixing two pieces of your life that shouldn’t be mixed.”

Harry wilted at that. Peter wasn’t wrong. Tired, Harry rubbed a hand over his face again. Peter had warned him against office romance almost immediately after Gwen had been hired. Not wanting to stand in the way of his scientist girlfriend’s enormous future success, Harry had agreed to break it off. Then Gwen smiled at him, and… all that went down the drain.

He wasn’t so much thinking with his dick as he was thinking with his heart, and that was the problem. His dick was more realistic.  

“Look, you’re the one who said you have eyes on you,” Peter reminded him gently.

Harry let out a muffled groan, peering at Peter through the gaps between his fingers. It was easier to be mad at Peter when Harry could safely assume he was being judged. But the ever present compassion in Peter’s gaze meant his anger was dead in the water.

Harry backed down. “Always,” he said. Everything was a test. Harry could never just be Harry around his father.

“So why this?”

For a moment, Harry was speechless. He had little to justify his behavior beyond that she was there and he wanted to. He wanted to share in her triumphs, be in her orbit. His father might derisively dismiss his feelings as Harry being in the honeymoon phase, but Harry really thought Gwen was the one for him. He would have proposed to her already if her thoughts on that weren’t already recorded in that book by his bed along with everything else that could turn their relationship sour.

His temper suddenly flared, unnaturally so. Harry banged his fist against the table, hissing, “I’m sick of it. I just want to kiss and flirt with my girlfriend when I want without wondering whose fucking report card I’m going to fail today!”

His rage vanished as soon as it appeared, rushing out like low tide and leaving him empty. The feeling got worse when he was confronted with Peter’s painfully neutral expression. Harry loosened his fist, dragging his nails away from the tiny cuts that had formed. Quietly, he said, “Pete, I’m-”

“Don’t,” Peter interrupted. He closed his eyes, sighing. “This is important to you. I know that. Just… be careful, man.” Peter’s eyes opened again, and he offered a crooked smile. “It’s bad enough you outed your secret identity on national television.”

Harry perked up at the olive branch. He rolled up and out of his chair with a grin. He clapped Peter’s shoulder companionably, which earned him a weary look. “These are difficult times, Peter,” Harry said gravely. “The city needs a symbol. The city needs hope. The city needs-” Harry struck a pose, hands on his hips, “-Spider-Man.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Oh shut up.” Harry couldn’t suppress his grin—it was hilarious how much Peter hated everyone’s favorite wall crawler. He bet Peter’s real favorite was someone boring, like Captain America. “Don’t forget your meeting in ten minutes.”

“How could I? I’m perfect.” With that, Harry lifted up a fist. Peter hesitated before pounding it, his smile smoothing out to look more natural.

“Good luck,” Peter said knowingly, clapping his arm.

Harry kept up his grin until Peter walked out of his office. Then, the second his executive assistant was out of sight, he sagged, leaning against his table once more.

He couldn’t forget the fact that Peter was essentially a handler, not an ally. Executive assistants were for problem children executives, and Harry had been assigned an executive assistant since the very beginning. It was the biggest slap in the face when he found out his first set of assistants had been whispering in his father’s ear the entire time.

But then he got Peter a few months back. Peter was great. He had already saved his ass on a couple of things. Peter had taken care of him when Liz Allen dumped him. He’d gotten rid of a stalker. He’d scrubbed the internet of all evidence related to that extremely reckless (and public) rebound fling with Felicia Hardy. And he let absolutely none of these color the way he worked with Harry on a daily basis.

But that was everything an executive assistant was supposed to do. Part baby sitter, part PR, all snitch. Spies in Oscorp branding. Right?

Peter didn’t fit that mold. He was respectful and genuinely interested in helping people get better at their jobs and juggle their crises. And why had Peter had advanced so much and so quickly? All Harry could figure out was a combination of his quick thinking, a complete lack of interest in office politics, and his perpetual deer in headlights expression.

He was a simple guy too, not prone to vices. His three motivations in life were money, benefits, and food. He was also ridiculously disciplined, a finding that flew in the face of his general flakiness. A glimpse of Peter’s personal calendar early on had been revealing. Peter had his schedule planned down to the minute—from 6am to 6am. It was intimidating. And he apparently only ever scheduled five hours for sleep, which Harry couldn’t understand. Harry was dead on his feet if he didn’t have at least 8 and half.

And he hadn’t been recently. For the last two months, his sleep was short and interrupted often, and it was bad enough that it was starting to affect his temper and his memory. He’d lost an entire Wednesday last week. Gwen said it had to be from stress. The increased scrutiny of the public on Oscorp was taking a toll on him, especially now that everyone knew about Vitanova. Although Harry was coming to regret it, he was the one who’d made the final decision to move forward with marketing it, if only to dangle a carrot in front of his father’s profit obsessed nose.

Better a miracle treatment than more weapons and defense contracts with the federal government. Harry would rather save the world with his researchers’ cures than end the world for anyone on the wrong end of his father’s inventions.

Anyway, it was his bed, and he was prepared to lie in it. But damn wasn’t his father working hard to make him regret it. Harry glanced at his watch. Speaking of which-

With only five minutes to spare, Harry slipped out of his office and into the elevator. It took him to the very top. By the time the doors opened to release him, he had on one of his best smiles for the staff that greeted him.

Norman Osborn had both a receptionist and a personal assistant. His personal assistant, usually attached to his side, was missing, as was Norman himself. But Meredith greeted him cheerfully, rising from her desk outside of the office.

“You’re early!” she chirped. “They’re not back yet.” She opened the double wood doors for Harry with a practiced flourish. “Take a seat, Mr. Osborn.”

Motion detectors, picking up on his entry, lit up the rest of the office. Like most things Norman owned, his office was a study in wasted space. Deep, rich wood covered the ground, contrasting sharply with sparse cream furniture. His desk, while wider than Harry’s by four feet, wasn’t set up much differently than Harry’s in regards to paperwork organization or guest chairs. However, where Harry’s desk had shelving behind it heavy with books, pictures, and awards, Norman instead had a severe, silver burnished Oscorp logo set just in front of seamless windows that looked out over the entire city.

It was the kind of office that was there to make a particular statement: intimidation. As such, Norman was rarely in there, preferring to instead tinker in his personal lab one floor above. Harry hadn’t had a single meeting outside of this office with his father, not since he’d graduated with an MBA and made his formal case for employment at Oscorp.

Harry didn’t waste time thinking about why that was; their relationship had soured well before Harry grew a spine and nixed Norman’s dream of a father-son science team. Resigned, Harry reached for the arm of one of the guest chairs, wondering what they would argue about today, whether it be Vitanova or the government contracts or the rumors of missing staff-

He froze, fingers crawling into the rigid chair. A cold icepick was stabbing through his nerves-

Then it was night all of a sudden, and jaundice yellow eyes were in his face, teeth pulled into a horrific permanent grimace.

**_Itsy bitsy spyyy-ddeer stole my re-seeearch_ **

**_Thinks he’s gonna be fine cuz he’s little Harr-ee-_ **

Harry’s hand tightened on the chair arm until his nails bent the wrong way, a screaming fire ripping through his veins as the sharp, unwanted needle went deeper and deeper into his flesh-

Then it wasn’t night anymore. It was day. It had always been day. The door to the office swung open again, letting in Norman’s receptionist. Cool air blanketed Harry’s sweating face as he stood there still, hunched awkwardly over the chair.

If Meredith noticed something was off, she was discreet about it. “Mr. Osborn! The, um, other Mr. Osborn. He canceled your meeting.”

Swallowing harshly, Harry straightened. He stared blankly at the chair for another two seconds before pivoting, throwing the nervous receptionist a charismatic smile. “I see! Contact my executive assistant to reschedule my meeting with my father, please. Peter will find a place on my calendar.”

“Of course, sir,” she said with a nod, walking him out. “I’m sorry we wasted your time today.”

“No worries. You have no idea how much this frees me up.” With a smirk, Harry jerked a thumb back at his father’s desk. “He’s a bit of a talker, you know.”

Meredith giggled politely, walking him the rest of the way to the elevator. Smoother than a bouncer, that one, but no less effective. He waved at her from the safety of the elevator car. The second it closed, though, he sagged against the wall. Harry covered his face, shaking with relief.

A high pitched, cruel voice floated past his ears. **_Harr-ee…_**

Harry shivered, letting out a shaky breath as he broke just a little.

But by the time he got back down to his level, not a single hair was out of place. He was even humming slightly. He was fine. His biggest problem was having a girlfriend in the workplace.

The faster he got over his missing Wednesdays, the better.

 

-

 

The door jingle-jangled his entrance like a snitch. Wade closed his gloved hand over the bells, scowling down at them. “Et tu, Brute?”

The bar was empty. Distressingly so. Wade peered around to make sure. It was almost like the author had never heard of Chekhov’s Gun or Kurt Vonnegut’s Eight Rules for Writing Fiction-

“Bar’s closed,” Luke called out from the back room.

_Ooh, advancing plot!_ Delighted, Wade pumped his fist. He hip-checked the door closed, skipping to the back of the establishment. “I am not here to be served,” he announced cheerfully. “On the contrary-”

There was a chorus of groans from the back—ah. It was so good to be recognized for his efforts. Humming to himself, he opened up the back door, rounded the corner, and let out a full-throated gasp at the sight of the full Defenders team in civilian clothes.

“Oh Em _Gee._ It’s the full orgy up in here! My advice? The best foreplay is always Two Truths, One Lie. Really gets the blood flowing, if you know what I mean. But solving murders is good too, I guess-”

Jessica pivoted, glaring at her teammates. “How does he know about the murders?” She said this, like Wade didn’t have working eyeballs that could see the crime scene photos plastered all over the table. Some people had such low expectations of him. Sad.

Luke and Danny shrugged. Murdock twitched guiltily. Jessica homed in on it like a heat-seeking missile.

“We’re working on a different case now, Deadpool,” Murdock said, shaking it off. His voice was firm. “And your services are still not needed.”

“You told him about the drug traffickers instead?” Danny complained. “Ever heard of the slogan ‘loose lips sink ships’?”

Murdock’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling, his jaw tense. After a moment, he said, “I’d like it entered into evidence that all of you, just now, told him way more than I did a few days ago.”

“I’ll be your star witness, boo.” Wade blew him a kiss.

“Get out, Deadpool,” Jessica snapped. “I have two cases and four dead bodies to deal with. I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit.”

Ignoring that, Wade wiggled in between Luke and Murdock. “Dead bodies, though? Totally up my alley, am I right?” Wade clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder. Luke eyed his hand. Then he eyed Wade. Wade removed his hand.

There was a long, awkward stretch of silence.

“Come on. He knows now. What’s the harm?” Danny muttered, looking from friend to friend.

Luke lifted an eyebrow. “The harm? Letting a half-starved, full-crazy fox guard a henhouse.”

“You say the sweetest things.” Wade rubbed his hands together briskly. “So, what are we looking at?”

The Defenders exchanged looks. Wade knew he’d be allowed to stay when Jessica didn’t immediately throw him out of the bar, head first. Or when they shuffled, begrudgingly, letting him enter their circle. Despite never wanting to work with anyone, the Defenders were probably the first group to fold when they knew they needed outside help. Pride wasn’t as a big of a deterrent with them. They knew they were better at tracking live people than reconstructing reality after someone had been unalived.

“We’re trying to figure out how they were killed,” Murdock said in an undertone.

“Obviously.” Hadn’t Wade just narrated that? Gosh.

Jessica sighed, staring at the ceiling for a little bit before she gave up too. “Our running theory is their killer stood in front of them and choked them to death while they watched.”

Wade nodded rapidly. “Right. Right. QQ: Do you have any idea how fucking hard that is?” That caught their attention. “People kick. Bite. Gouge. Scratch. Stab. Punch. Spit. Choking from in front is not an easy way to unalive a person. Or an enjoyable one. Unless ya nasty.”

Wade picked up a picture, squinting at it. It was of a young man—late thirties, maybe. His skin was pale from death, except the ringing, hand-like purple mess around his throat. Wade dropped the picture back down on the table with the rest. “Hm. Your dead people. They have any defensive wounds? Skin caught under their nails? Weird fluids?”

“Just bits of paint flecks and black fiber,” Luke commented.

“Paint. Weird. But fiber makes sense. What kind?”

“Kevlar,” Luke said.

Wade’s eyes widen. “Huh.” He mimed choking someone. “Gloves, maybe?” If Wade was getting choked out, he’d go for the face. But if the face was blocked—and he wasn’t trained—he’d probably try and pry the hands off his neck. Rookie mistake, but these were civilians, after all.

“Like yours?” Jessica spat.

Wade blinked. He stopped choking the air. “Like mine,” he agreed, tone muted. He flexed his fingers. He did have Kevlar gloves. And he was, in general, very murderer-y. He could see where she was coming from. Hm, Wade supposed this was the part of the conversation where they started grilling him about his whereabouts.

But that didn’t happen. After a beat, everyone—including caustic Miss Jessica Jones—swung their gaze back down to the table. Huh. His time with the Avengers really was getting around. He was tearing up here, gentle reader. Really. This prickling feeling wasn’t seasonal allergies.

Luke was sifting through an autopsy report. “Any idea what can crush a windpipe?”

“A lot, actually,” Wade chimed in. “A quick blow for me usually does the trick, but if we’re still thinking our bad guy choked his victims to death, I’d hafta ask what his trachea looked like.”

“Like a twisted and used napkin,” Jessica commented, shoulders tight.

“Right, right.” Demolished trachea, horrific bruising, fiber and paint instead of blood or skin—ooh, killer robots! Wait, no, better idea. “Hey, hey—are there cracks in the vertebrate of the neck, roughly where a man—or woman or otherwise gendered person—might press their fingertips if they were slow dancing a person to death?”

Murdock tipped his head suddenly to Wade. “How did you know that that?”

“Well, kiddies, you’re looking for a serial killer with super strength. Or killer robots.” Wade backed away from the table, wiggling his fingers at them. “You’re welcome. I charge by the hour. You’ll receive my invoice shortly-”

“That’s it?” Danny interrupted rudely. “That’s all your vaunted expertise can tell us?”

Oh, it was on like Donkey Kong. “If the Immortal Iron Fist would like to be shoved up his mortal anus,” Wade purred, “all he had to do was ask-“

Danny’s eyes darkened. “Screw you.”

“It’s not my fault your show got canceled! Just cuz cultural appropriation isn’t as sexy as it used to be doesn’t mean-”

“Danny’s right,” Murdock said over them. The bickering died down with that. “As much as I hate to say it.” Murdock’s sightless gaze rose from the ground, settling in Wade’s vicinity. “We need a little more than that.” 

Wade sputtered. “What, you’d like a profile too? Do I look like Vincent D’Onofrio? Because I’m pretty sure you put that guy in jail. Twice.” When this failed to get a reaction, Wade sighed loudly, approaching the table again. “He’s an angry boi, right? Likes to watch his victims suffer. And I say he because he’s probably a white dude, because them’s the statistics. He’s done this enough to know the wisdom of wearing something over his face and throat, so there’s probably more dead people in his past than you’re currently aware of.”

Wade idly pushed the photos aside, fingers trailing over Jessica’s notes about one of the victims and their past. Wade did enough sleuthing while hunting down marks to appreciate her skill, but her heart bled over everything—even her notes. He couldn’t imagine she had many cases that she didn’t take a personal stake in. Not anymore, anyway. From what he’d heard, Alias Investigations rarely took anything less than missing persons or murders nowadays. 

“He has money, connections, super intelligence, a whacked out brain, or all of the above. Why? Because no one without those things dumps a dead body so close to home.” All four of the dead victims lived in Manhattan, and all four of them had been found floating in the Manhattan portion of the Hudson River. Wade was voting for whacked out brain. Kingpin would have never been so sloppy.

Danny squinted at him. “Is it possible that the Oscorp connection between the victims is a red herring?”

Wade perked up at that. “There’s an Oscorp connection?” Interesting!

“Why don’t you just give him a copy of everything I have?” Jessica groused.

Wade started collecting everything on the table. “Thanks, that would actually be really helpful-” Murdock snapped his folded up cane on the documents, missing Wade’s fingers by milliseconds. Nursing his uninjured hand like a poor sport, Wade nevertheless had yet another question. “Is it a good connection or a bad one?”

Like well trained dogs, three quarters of the Defenders looked at Jessica. “They were all whistleblowers,” she said slowly. “Or connected to one.”

“If it’s not sheer coincidence, then it’s not a red herring. It’s too much of a pattern, and you know it.” Jessica glowered at him. “Your bad guy didn’t kill these people just because he had to. Whatever they were doing, it was a personal insult to him, and he made them regret it for the rest of their lives.” Wade leaned in closer to Jessica, staring at her unblinkingly. “And that’s a _good_ thing. If you have a bad guy thinking more with his testosterone and ego than his actual brain, then he’s going to be a lot easier to catch. He’s going to screw up.”

Jessica stared back at him stubbornly. There were bags under her eyes. She smelled like spilled scotch and sleepless nights. Then the tension between her eyebrows eased slowly. She looked back down at the table, hands moving over the documents and connecting them in a way Wade didn’t see. Yet.

Danny eyed him distrustfully. “If you’re so aware of how people can be tied to a crime scene, why are you so goddamn unsubtle about your kills?”

Wade tapped his temple. “Now you’re thinking!” he chirped. “Notoriety is free marketing in my line of business. So is the suit. Nope, if you want to be known as a killer or a thief or a hacker or whatever, you want _everyone_ to know your jobs were your jobs, otherwise some schmuck could come in and take credit.”

“But this guy,” Murdock commented knowingly. “He bothers you.”

“What?” Luke looked between Murdock and Wade, like he couldn’t process that.

Wade smiled thinly. Fuck that guy and his senses, right?

Yeah. This guy bothered him.

“Be careful,” he said instead. “There’s a lot of rage in this. Cold rage. Abusive rage. The kind of person that drowns a kid’s beloved pet in front of them because that kid forgot to take out the trash.” A prickling discomfort edged down his spine, too close to being a sense memory. Wade shook himself out of it. He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Anyhoo, you figure out more, let me know. Ixnay the comment on the invoice, I was kidding. My services are pro boner for this sick fuck.”

Wade pushed away from the table, walking out like a badass.

“That’s not what it’s called,” Danny shouted after him.

 

-

 

Stunned, Peter watched for a full minute as Reed Richards got choked out by a robot with waving tentacles for arms. When it started looking less fun or scientific and more like an actual fight, he interrupted the scene by delicately rapping his knuckles against the Baxter Building window.

Bulging faintly, Reed’s eyes darted to him. Peter wiggled his fingers in greeting. With a wheeze, Reed stretched out, a long arm wavering across the expanse of the room before a hand successfully snatched at the window latch, letting in the night breeze—and your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

With an alarmed bleep, the robot spun towards the new contender, shooting out one of two free arms to catch him. But the robot had nothing on Doc Ock. Peter rolled under the arms quickly, shooting up just in time to deliver a sharp quick kick to the thing’s shiny torso. Peter wasn’t gentle. The torso caved in around his foot, knocking it back hard enough to detach it from its waving arms. The robot did a full circle, panicking like a traumatized Roomba before hitting the wall at full speed. It fell over, wheels spinning futilely in the air.

Approaching it, Peter cocked his head curiously, watching it. He nudged it with his toe. It bleated, wiggling around like a sad, upside down turtle. “Am I your supervillain origin story?” he asked it, awed and a little horrified.

“Please. It’s not sentient,” Reed complained, voice rough as he pushed off the limp tentacle arms. He got up from the floor, shrugging his threadbare robe back over his shoulders and cramming his foot into his missing slipper, all while muttering to himself. “You build one homicidal robot-”

“Three. Three homicidal robots.”

“You build three homicidal robots, and they. Never. Let. It. Go.” Reed rubbed his throat with a wince and picked up his scattered laptop. He turned his head to Peter, suppressing a yawn. “How did you know I needed help? I killed the alarm.”

Propping a hand on his hip, Peter scowled at his friend. “Reed, alarms are for alarming people. This is worthy of alarming.”

Walking past him, Reed made a face. “It’s not that bad. Besides, Sue is sleeping.” He crouched down next to the bot, patting with friendliness. The robot vibrated with seething, hostile intent. Humming musingly under his breath, Reed just took a trailing wire from his computer and connected it to the bot. “I bet there’s a virus in the software.”

Peter squatted down next to him. “Virus or sloppy coding?”

Reed glowered at him. Peter grinned behind his mask.

He liked Reed. Sure, most people found the man mild to downright dull. The same people who rolled their eyes at him tended to underestimate how handy an elasticity superpower was. But the real stand out thing about Reed wasn’t his personality or his alter ego Mr. Fantastic. No, it was his brain. Reed was one of the most intelligent men Peter knew, and he knew quite a few. If Reed was more interested in materialism over learning and research, Oscorp would be out of business. Stark Industries too, probably.

Reed wasn’t just interesting to talk to. For Peter, he was also strangely soothing. Rational. Logical. Perpetually curious. Sometimes short sighted when in pursuit of greater knowledge but humble enough to apologize and try to do better next time. Utterly devoted to his wife and friends. The kind of guy May and Ben always said Richard Parker was.

Reed was about 10 or so years younger than Peter’s dad would have been, but they would have been fast friends. Peter would bet on it. That didn’t mean Peter didn’t enjoy arguing with the guy a bit just to yank his chain.

“It’s a virus,” Reed said decisively.

“It’s the match up of the century, folks! Ten thousand lines of code versus one missing tag—Who. Will. _Win_?”

Before Peter could pester Reed further, there was a thud at the other end of the lab. Peter shifted from his heels to his toes, still crouching and completely alert. In the comfort of his own home, Reed just hummed a bit in his mouth, a hand idly rubbing his throat.

Then the Thing rounded the corner, a tiny teacup in his colossal hands. 100% of his focus on the piping hot liquid as he delicately blew on it. “You screwed up the coding again, didn’t you?”

“Hi Ben,” Peter greeted cheerfully, popping up to his full height.

Ben jerked, tea spilling over his hand—to no effect, because, duh. He still swore softly, his face twisting into an impressive scowl. “Damn, kid, I just saw you on TV. Aren’t you supposed to be in the Bronx?” Grumpy, the man wiped his fingers off on his robe. “You slip a teleporter in that skintight spandex?”

Peter lit up. How fortuitous!

“Please don’t,” Reed begged under his breath.

“I am legion,” Peter announced ominously, spreading his arms in a grandiose welcoming gesture. “Join the Spidey Clone Army and be one with us.”

“Legion?” Ben snorted. “What you are is three children in an overcoat trying to sneak into an R rated movie.”

Rude! “That doesn’t sound like a no,” Peter said in a sing-songy voice, grinning. He tapped his bottom lip, looking Ben up and down. “I’ll get you a suit. What size do you run—XXXL? Have to warn you, though. Spidey Bootcamp is not for the faint of heart-”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Webs. I’m off the clock. Good night.”

He left, leaving Peter pouting after him. What he wouldn’t give to make Ben take him seriously… The Thing was one of the most liked super heroes around. If they got Ben Grimm to join the roster, the Spidey Clone Army was set for life. Captain America, who?

Behind him, Reed clicked his tongue. “Shit.”

He was sitting fully on the floor now, laptop in its intended position—in his lap. His hands were flying over the keys, and his expression was almost… rueful? 

“What is it?” Peter asked, concerned.

Reed hesitated. Then, with a soft laugh, he looked up at Peter, a loose lock of black and graying hair falling over his forehead. “A coding error.”

Peter relaxed. “See. there you go,” he said lightly. “Not everything has to be malicious, Reed.”

The Roomba wannabe swung back to its feet, idling peacefully in place. Peter watched it warily. With a small grunt, Reed stood, attaching one of the tentacle arms in place—but only one, Peter noticed. The robot registered the returned limb with a cheerful set of chirps. Then it lifted its arm, and its three pronged hand disappeared in a spinning whirl. In its place? A much-abused broom head. With what strangely sounding like a whistled tune, it bustled off, sweeping.

Reed watched after it fondly, like a parent.

Exactly like a parent, Peter remembered suddenly. Reed and Sue were trying to conceive, and Reed wasn’t the only one freaking out how this was going to change their lifestyle. Trust Sue to dive straight into the biology of the matter while Reed tinkered in his workshop and made a half-homicidal bot. First sweeping, then diaper changing, he bet. Reed would make a fortune.

“What do I owe you for this one?” Reed asked soberly.

Peter didn’t understand what he meant for a moment. Then reality rushed back in. He scratched the back of his head. “Way to make me sound so harsh,” he muttered, almost to himself. After a beat, he crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

“You never do anything for free,” Reed reminded him.

“And I didn’t do anything, so relax,” Peter snapped. He ducked his head, feeling bad almost immediately.

But when he dared to look up again, Reed was watching him with a complicated look, a mixture of exasperation and fondness contorting his face. Reed crossed his arms over his chest too, facing Peter. “Well, while we’re not doing anything,” he said knowingly, “maybe I should tell you that Captain America has been asking around about you.”

Peter nodded unhappily. “So has Deadpool, I heard.”

Reed didn’t refute that. “So what’s the plan?”

Peter blinked rapidly behind his mask. “What plan? You have a plan for the star-spangled man? This, I gotta hear…”

Reed rolled his eyes and clarified. “What’s your plan for dealing with Deadpool?”

Peter rolled a loose bolt across the ground with his toe. “Only one of those two men have the power to destroy me, and it’s not Deadpool.”

Peter could deal with Wade. Besides, Wade was an easy sell. He was generally an outspoken fan of all things Peter Parker—Spider-Man included, whether he was aware of it or not. Peter didn’t know why Deadpool kept pursuing Spider-Man, but he also knew that, if he really wanted the answer, all he had to do was stop running and ask. Wade was straightforward like that.

Steve, on the other hand, actually hated him. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell, and Peter was afraid to ask. In any case, Steve certainly disapproved of him. That much was obvious. Peter wasn’t even remotely close to a team player, and Steve didn’t appreciate that at all. Steve could wreck everything without even trying.

And Reed didn’t get it. “Now who’s being overdramatic. Captain America is a good man.”

“That is entirely the problem, don’t you think?” Peter tipped his chin up challengingly. “He’s looking for a new HYDRA, and I seem especially two-faced.”

Reed eyed him. He didn’t refute that either. “Maybe it’s because of your Spidey Clone Army recruitment speech.”

“It needs some work,” Peter said agreeably. Once he decided to pursue someone, he tended not to inspire a whole lot of confidence. This resulted in about three or four days of arguing before he got a yes—and he always got a yes. Peter was very careful about who he approached. Ben would come around.

Shaking his head, Reed leaned over and picked up his laptop and other junk on the floor. He placed it all on the closest counter, already littered with bits and pieces of wiring and robot dispersed across half-finished lab notes and observations. Peter always felt like he learned by osmosis whenever he was in Reed’s space. How could he not? The man’s genius—his thoughts, his logic, his understanding of the basic principles of everything—they were everywhere here. Unrestrained. Unhidden. Ready to be shared. Even now at two o’clock in the morning.

Reed turned around slowly, frowning at Peter. He leaned back against his counter before saying, hesitantly, “Does… Spidey really need to be as ubiquitous as you think he does?” When Peter didn’t immediately respond, his expression firmed, Reed visibly becoming sure of himself and his stance. “You know you don’t always have to be the person in front, drawing all the fire. Right? That’s why we’re a team—all of us. You can rely on more than just you holding the line.”

Peter stared at him for a long moment before letting out a half bitten off scoff. “Right. And- and when you have to go to space, and the Avengers have to fight a Norse god, and Magento is messing with the X-Men, and the Defenders are occupied with ninjas—then what? Who saves everyone else?” Reed didn’t respond. Peter rushed to reassure him. “Look, you guys got your own bad guys. I get it. Really. But when you’re gone? Sometimes, it is really just me—or the reminder of me—keeping criminals in check.”

Reed held his gaze. Then he looked away, rubbing his thumb against his jaw. “Is that really the conclusion you’re making?” His tone was neutral. So neutral, it registered as an accusation anyway.

Peter’s hackles rose. “What other conclusion is there?”

Reed sighed. “Well, how about the fact that maybe New York’s other superhero factions need to do a better job protecting their own homes?”

“Right, like Mr. Fantastic is going to respond to an apartment fire,” Peter barked, rattled, his hackles raised.

“I have, and I can do it again!” Reed’s irritation bled through like magnesium burning—sharp, bright, and gone almost before it began. At the end of it, he just looked tired and not a little sad. “I like you, Spidey, I really do. But there’s going to be a day sometime in the future where you will need to step down, and you won’t. I’m worried you won’t survive the experience.”

“Well, when that day comes,” Peter bit out, “you’ll get to say I told you so, huh?”

Peter’s. Goddamn. _Mouth_. Getting him in trouble, every time.

Reed slowly shook his head. “Spidey, I won’t be doing anything that day but mourning you.”


	4. Chapter 4

May got her cancer diagnosis when Peter was thirteen.

It changed everything. It shaped him. Molded him. But it shaped and molded a lot more than just him. It changed his family too—ruined it, just a little bit. Though he’d never tell May that. He wasn’t cruel.

May always had a hot temper. Quick to rise, quick to fall, Ben always joked. Peter learned the importance of facing consequences and issuing apologies from her. You couldn’t just say it. You had to mean it, feel it, deep in your heart. And you couldn’t expect people to just accept it either. An apology wasn’t the closing of a chapter. It was the start of one, and even if the person you hurt didn’t want to open the book, it was your responsibility to see the chapter through. To grow. To change. To become the kind of person who would never hurt someone what way again.

But May lost her fiery temperament when she was diagnosed. She lost her voice too, and much of her opinions. She turned quiet—introspective on her best days, depressive on her worst. Oh, she tried to keep it up like everything was normal. She wouldn’t be her if she didn’t try. But part of her had hyperfocused on death, making her wonder constantly if each holiday and each experience was going to be her last.

Ben, on the other hand, was an idealist. Never left the house without his rose-colored glasses, May used to say. And, as he grew older, he became a man who lived for being a mentor. He had an uncanny knack for catching people when they were about to do something stupid, too. (Peter would know. He caught most of it while growing up.) He also had a talent (almost a _calling_ ) for setting people back on the right path. He did it in such a casual, friendly way too. Ben wasn’t about to judge you, no. He just wanted you to be happy and well. Ben Parker was “Uncle Ben” to a lot of men and women in their neighborhood, not just Peter.

But Ben lost quite a bit of his idealism when May was diagnosed. He stopped watching out as much around him, his focus narrowing on his wife. So when a young man with a gun robbed a convenience store, he didn’t try to talk him down. Instead, he got down on his stomach, folded his arms over his head as he was ordered, and let the robbery commence. It broke his heart when he heard the man had been shot to death two streets over by the cops, but he endured and moved on. Because May was dying, and she needed him more than the rest of the world did.

And Peter was… Peter. Too smart for his own good, and far too stubborn. But he was the best of his parents and the best of his aunt and uncle, and he stuck to it. Even at school and with his peers, he didn’t budge much. He was never a popular kid but still a good one. The kind of kid teachers pointed out as a role model and as a leader even though no one looked up to him and no one looked out for him.

But after May was diagnosed? Peter became very, very angry.

It started with the diagnosis. His aunt and uncle never lied to him, but May’s cancer educated him on lies of omission. They sat him down to break the news, as people do, and Peter was heartbroken. Cancer was death, and he wasn’t ready for that for Aunt May. But by the time he stopped crying, they had laid out the scenario for him—the facts, the situation, the solution, and the action steps moving forward. It was tidy and clean. The void of losing May had been resolved, neat and tied in a bow. Everything was going to be fine. The Adults had it handled, and all Peter had to do was trust them and continue to focus on school.

And Peter did trust them, he really did. But this false peace only lasted about a day, because Peter was what some might call an overachiever, and others might call a nerd. He dove into every bit of literature about May’s cancer, and found out that May and Ben hadn’t quite lied, necessarily. Yes, May’s cancer was survivable. But the cost of ensuring that survival was going to kill their family.

So Peter picked up his first job when he was almost fourteen. Mr. Jackson down the street didn’t take him very seriously when Peter approached him about it, but the man let him tag along anyway. He was notorious for his numerous jobs, and one of his side hustles was detailing cars.

Peter was a diligent worker, detailing and working on those cars until his hands were pink and stiff. He followed Mr. Jackson’s rules down to the very last T and counted the stack of bills he was given—twice. It was a rough and hard experience, following Mr. Jackson around, and the adult himself had seemed very leery when Peter approached him about day two.

“Maybe talk to Uncle Benny now, yeah?” Mr. Jackson said, not unkindly. He ruffled Peter’s hair.

Peter, still being an agreeable sort of kid at that point, did just that, surrendering his earnings too. Ben was perturbed by this turn of events, even when Peter persisted and told him it was for Aunt May and her treatment.

In the end, Ben, always the peacekeeper, staved off the looming confrontation. Instead of challenging Peter, Ben just gave the money back to him and told him to save it instead. Assuming Ben meant “save it for May”, Peter got a jar and shoved the cash inside, sitting it prominently in his room so he could look at it every day. It wasn’t much, but Peter was optimistic. Maybe it was only fifty dollars this week, but over time, it would become more. All he had to do was keep working at it, like everyone else in the house. His participation was not optional.

See, Peter knew even at fourteen that Ben wasn’t going to be able to do this by himself, and the cancer treatment itself was turning May’s earning power into a leaking sieve. Cancer treatments were not cheap, and their insurance only went so far. His aunt and uncle weren’t young either. Ben himself had been looking to retire within the next five years. Now he was going to keep his job and pick up another one for the weekend.

Peter didn’t see why he shouldn’t be equally responsible. More responsible, even. May and Ben hadn’t gone into life wanting or preparing for a child, but they had raised him nevertheless. It was Peter’s fault they didn’t have more of a savings cushion to weather this, so it was on Peter to pitch in and make a difference.

Mr. Jackson never hired him again, but by the time he was fifteen, Peter had two under the table jobs (as well as his one legitimate one). It was a source of enormous tension in the house. Ben couldn’t stave off the confrontation forever, so they fought constantly. His uncle kept trying to refuse his money, get him to save it for himself—or, better yet, drop his jobs entirely and focus on improving his failing grades. May, the more pragmatic of the two, kept the brewing war at a stalemate by banishing all talk of money at the dinner table or in the living room. But Peter knew his choices were hurting her too.

The only silver lining was the fact that May’s treatment was working out very well, despite the lost hair and the daily sickness that forced her to eventually quit her job. But the loans and the dual mortgages on top of the remaining medical costs meant their family was living paycheck to paycheck. Peter was still stealing bills to pay, and his uncle was still resenting him for it.

Then the actions of a rogue spider gave Peter the speed and strength no kid his age or his intelligence should ever have. Once he stopped freaking (and geeking) out, he immediately tried to see how he could monetize it. But how? Stealing from people or robbing a place were never an option. He was too small and too young to be taken seriously as a bodyguard or security, even if he could lift a car. YouTubing his exploits had potential, especially if he branded himself as some sort of parkour genius, but it took time to get followers, time he didn’t have.

But if he got involved in that underground wrestling ring his classmates gossiped about, he could make $500 a night. But he’d have to fight people.

In the end, that wasn’t the obstacle it should have been. Peter had never been in a legitimate fight before, sure. But Peter was a very angry person at fifteen—still was at twenty-seven to some degree. Beating up on someone had never been his style, but if the person was asking for it? He was all in.

He scoped out the fights first, and boy were they hard to find. But once he watched a match or two, he realized they were part cage match, part WWE—both brutal beatdowns as well over the top theatrics. And lots and lots of animal-themed wrestler backgrounds. When he did finally approach the organizers, he didn’t use his real name. He wasn’t stupid. He also approached in full costume—black pants, black shoes, black hoodie, and a black ski mask. The only burst of color was the white spider he spray-painted on the front and back.

He wasn’t going to let his baby face ruin this for him. “Richard Petrelli” had to be seen as a serious contender.

As it was, he barely slipped through the screening process, benefiting only from an unexpectedly dropped fighter and his own brash, misplaced confidence. Daniel Brito, the boss, didn’t like him from the get-go and set him up to knock him down. That first match was bad. He nearly lost and got a mouthful of blood, a body full of bruises, and a grudging $500 for his troubles.

Peter nearly gave up then and there. Powers or not, the whole experience spooked him. A full month went by between his first and second match, and he swore up and down he would never get in a fight with another person ever again. Then their power and water shut off due to lack of payment, and Ben and May got in a rare arguing match over it, bickering about whose fault it was in a way they never did in front of Peter. And by the next night, fears or no fears, he hunted down the new location. Within twenty minutes, the Spider was back in the ring, squaring up against a guy who looked like he used kids like Peter as dental floss.

Eventually, Peter got better at it. By the third match, Peter was listening better to his senses. He bled less, certainly. By his fifth match, he’d developed a bastardized child of street fighting cribbed from YouTube videos and his rival fighters. By the ninth match, Brito stopped rolling his eyes at Peter’s mismatched black and white outfit, and started amping him up instead.

“Ricky, my boy!” Daniel would crow, slinging an arm around Peter’s neck. “There’s more to life to be had past this little gig of ours. You keep learning how to knock heads together, and I’ll make sure you have a job when this thing plays out, ya feel me?”

Yeah, Peter felt him. So Peter kept getting better, kept playing to the crowd. He knew how to rile them up. He perfected a bit where he’d turn his back on his challenger and chit chat with someone in the crowd, only to dodge at the last possible second when his opponent lost his shit and tried to attack him. Most of his bits were like that, actually, and the crowd went wild over it. The audience wanted the Spider to win as much as they wanted him to get his face brutally smashed in.

Somewhere in that gray area, Peter thrived.

In the 11th match, Peter became the only solo contender to successfully fight off three attackers. In the 12th match, Peter beat a man three times his weight with a single well-timed kick to the back of his knee. In the 13th match, they tied his hands behind his back and had two people whale on him with chairs. He beat his attackers. Never did get out of the chains, though—Brito himself had to jog on stage to release him.

By the 14th match, Peter beat Brito’s top fighter in a grueling, twenty-minute fight. He was at the top of the world, a literal reigning champion with hundreds of people cheering him on. Nothing could bring him down.

Nothing, except for the sight of Uncle Ben’s face in the crowd. It was the worst fight they ever had.

Ben waited for him outside of the venue, expression flat and disappointed. Peter couldn’t pretend he was someone else or that there was some grave misunderstanding. He was maskless, face bare like it rarely was around his fellow “coworkers”. His hands were bare too, but wrapped in bandages, and he was still wearing the hoodie that made up his wrestling costume. Even worse, his mouth was split open and he had a growing shiner, swelling just enough that makeup wasn’t going to hide anything.

Resigned, Peter shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets, knowing his shoulders were up somewhere around his ears. Knowing by now how shady the ring was and how quickly it burned through locations, contact information, and social media accounts, Peter started power-walking away, knowing his uncle would follow him. The last thing he needed was to lose his place in the ring, and Ben was just oblivious enough to wreck everything for the Spider.

“This is an ugly thing you’re doing, Pete,” Ben was saying by the time they rounded the block. “You’re a smart boy, and this is dumb and ugly. You could be helping people-”

“I am helping people!” Peter blurted out, finally acknowledging him. “I’m helping May.”

“If she was here tonight, if she saw you-”

Ben had watched. Ben had seen him fight. Seen him insult and mock the challenger. Seen him throw the man across the ring when he got too close. Peter hadn’t beaten the man. He had _destroyed_ him. And, just an hour ago, that had been a good thing.

“Me, what about you?” Peter fired back quickly. “You’re the one being stupid. I can make more money in one week than you make in three months, Ben!” Peter froze mid-step, stopping and turning on his uncle. Incredulous, he asked, “…is that why you keep fighting me on this?”

Uncle Ben seemed alarmed by his question, his expression digging deep furrows between his eyebrows. Peter would be too. Later, anyway, much later. But coming down from the high of a successful and hard fight, all Peter could see to think was that Ben was holding him back somehow, refusing to acknowledge the real good Peter was doing here.

Peter was an angry boy when he was fifteen. Egotistical one too.

“You know what they say, Peter,” Ben said slowly. “Judge a man by his questions, not by his-”

“Yeah, you know what else they say?” Peter snapped, interrupting. “Pride goeth before fall.”

Uncle Ben flinched back like he had been slapped, and it triggered a weird, almost out of body experience for Peter. The adrenaline had faded, and with it his confidence. Instead, he felt cold and small. What was he doing? What were they fighting about? Did he seriously just accuse Ben of not wanting his money because of his pride? When Ben was the least prideful person Peter knew?

Across from him, Ben looked tired, older than his sixty years, and Peter thought of all the worry that must have driven him to follow Peter, figure out what he was doing (when, where, and how). Ben should have been at work. He was missing it because of Peter, and Ben’s new supervisor at his new night job wasn’t a nice or understanding person. He’d been too worried about Peter to even care.

Ben was risking a lot.

“Ben-” Peter started to say.

Ben lifted a hand. “Stop,” he said, tone neutral, and Peter remembered how Ben was always the calmer one of the three of them. Mostly because he had the tendency to withdraw like this, pull all of his hurts and confusion and bent feelings inward and out of sight. Peter felt very young all of a sudden.

“If the cops catch you,” Ben said, gesturing at his hoodie, “catch this, your life is going to be over. You understand that, don’t you? What you’re doing is against the law, and it’s only a matter of time before this whole thing gets shut down. Remember that.”

And that was that.

Peter didn’t sleep that night. He spent hours staring at the wall, just thinking. He sensed a crossroad in front of him, but he didn’t know what decision was right. Clearly, maintaining his earning potential still mattered. May still mattered. Was this new job really such an ugly, dumb thing? Ben had been so disappointed with him… Ben wanted him to stop. But could he really? Peter wrestled with the decision all night long.

In the end, he didn’t make a choice, and three days later, he got called into another fight. It was the last day in that venue before they burned everything and scattered again. Peter almost begged off, but then his boss promised him triple if he’d come in and fight some guy who’d been kicked off the wrestling circuits because he beat a man to death.

Money was a stronger lure than fear, but wisdom always beat out foolishness. After all, Ben was right. It was only a matter of time before the ring got in trouble.

That night, the ring wasn’t broken up by the cops. Not immediately, anyway.

Peter’s first hint that something was wrong was when his game of Angry Birds was interrupted by a disturbance. Another regular, Roy Simmons, staggered back into the contenders’ breakroom. The massive seven-foot fighter was groaning, curled protectively around his right arm, and the sight of him so visibly unmanned sent a panic around the room. The other fighters stood up in unison, one of them reaching out to break Roy’s fall. It didn’t make any sense. None of the fights had started, nor the opening ceremony.

Panic turned to confusion, then confusion to rage.

Then Peter’s favorite superhero casually walked into the breakroom, a solid tower of gleaming gold and red armor.

Like a child, Peter gaped at the actual bona fide hero slumming it in their quarters, and he wasn’t the only one. Everyone was frozen, staring as if at a sudden car crash.

Clearly disinterested by this, Tony Stark looked around the room, seemingly cataloguing everything—which he probably was, Peter thought excitedly. Rumor had it, Stark had a legit, functioning, and self-learning AI installed in his armor. Peter suppressed the horrible urge to wave.

After a beat, Stark nudged Roy’s calf with the tip of his boot. “Yo. That was stupid. Wanna try that again?”

“Not really,” Roy said timidly. “My apologies for punching you, Mr. Stark.”

Oh man. Behind Peter’s mask, a stupid grin formed. He couldn’t believe Roy “Lightning Fists” Simmons really tried to punch a man in a metal suit. Wait, scratch that. Peter totally believed it. His fellow fighters weren’t the sharpest crayons in the crayon box, and Simmons was probably the dullest of the dull.

“Apologies accepted! Solid answer. Solid answer.” Iron Man clapped Roy’s shoulder, to which Roy blanched but stayed silent, even as Iron Man released him to step deeper in the room.

Everyone backed off a step, even Peter, who was mostly hidden by other fighters. It was either that or get his toes stepped on. He was experimenting with softer shoes and his sticky powers, and most of these guys wore heavy boots. Owie zowie.

“Interesting setup!” Stark commented, patting one of the low shelves. No one said a peep when he idly poked into the open cubby full of someone’s street clothes. “Semi-regular competitions, lots of fans, and yet its super hard to find you if you’re not in the right cliques. And by the time people start hearing more about the games in town, poof, you’re gone. A true triumph of guerilla marketing.”

It was quiet in the breakroom, like it rarely was. Peter couldn’t hear the audience filing in or their boss riling up the crowd. The usually deafening music was gone too, and even the fighters were silent, not daring to get the man’s attention.

“But that’s not you guys, right? You’re just the entertainment. The show people crowd around and gamble on.” Iron Man looked at them one after another, shaking his head. “It’s a letdown, you know? You’re all such healthy, athletic people. You have the power to do something. Instead, you use it to beat the crap out of each other in an illegal fighting ring. Interesting life choices…”

The awe was wearing off. Peter’s “coworkers” were starting to bristle all around the room.

A man stepped forward. “Hey man, it’s a hobby,” Ralph Santos fired back. “Everyone consented to this. We’re not hurting anyone.”

Brave, brave Ralph. Peter liked him. Ralph Santos was the fourth guy Peter beat—shorter than he was but built like a wall. Nicer than he looked too, a scowling bus driver by day and a scowling divorced dad by night. He’s the one who finally helped Peter flesh out his Spider persona—aka The Mouthy Asshole. Far better than the terrified silence he used to keep up, but it wasn’t Ralph’s fault he interpreted Peter’s genuine fear as stage fright. Peter’s mask hid a lot of sins.

Like now.

“A hobby,” Stark echoed, tone sarcastic. “Consent. Right. Normally, I wouldn’t judge a man for his hobby, given that I build metal suits and beat the crap out of aliens and bad people for fun, but you know what? This particular hobby of yours really pisses me off.”

Iron Man stared down Ralph a little longer before swinging his gaze across the room. His eyes landed on Peter. They settled on him. Just for a moment. Just enough for his hackles to raise and his Spidey sense to start ringing the warning bell.

Then Stark looked elsewhere, saying, “Did you know that one of your ‘totally consenting’ fighters is a fourteen-year-old kid?”

Fifteen, Peter thought in protest. The thought came too quickly to dispute the stupidity of it. But his silence saved him. While Peter was certainly the lightest of the fighters, he wasn’t the smallest. All eyes on the room didn’t stop on the Spider, but rather on Will “Bumblebee” Nelson, who was only 5’3’’.

“Oh, I know y’all aren’t looking at me,” Will growled, squaring up with both fists raised. “I’ll fight anyone of ya who think Imma kid. Don’t think I won’t!”

To that, Roy said hesitantly, gently, “Willie… If you _were_ a kid-”

“You first, dick bag!” Then Will launched himself at Roy, and all out brawl broke out.

As soon as a surprised Iron Man disappeared in a mass of thrown fists and flying elbows, Peter slipped through a vent, tumbling hard through the ducts into an office just one room over. He hauled himself up out of the dust and bent metal and over to the office window, forcing it open. Then he jumped out into the rainy night, ripping his ski mask off his head. Red and blue lights were flashing through the alley, but no cops were visible just yet.

Peter ducked his head and ran all the way home.

Under different circumstances, Peter would have learned from this experience, and the main thing he would have learned was to not mess with authority. Peter didn’t much like the idea of getting into trouble—no one did—but this was his first real brush with serious consequences. It was like losing control of the flame you were stupidly playing with and realizing you couldn’t control it. It was a mistake most people only had to make once.

But this wasn’t those circumstances. Instead, Peter splashed his way back to his house, heart thudding, lungs wheezing, and mind whirling with the super-duper close call. He didn’t consider it anything but bad, bad luck that Iron Man, of all people, would stumble on the illegal ring and decide to crash it.

That is, until he came home. Until he saw Ben waiting up for him in the kitchen with concerned, expectant eyes.

“You ran off?” Ben asked, frowning. “He let you? In this weather?”

Iron Man hadn’t been an accident at all.

The rain was coming in sideways, through the back door. Unfreezing, Peter mechanically closed it, locking it. His fingers were numb, and his face was getting there. He had a hollow feeling in his chest, like the one he had when he realized his aunt and uncle had effectively lied to him. Not out of spite, no.

They loved him too much.

“How could you?” Peter whispered. He turned around.

“If you didn’t listen to me, I thought you’d listen to him instead.” Ben stood from the table. “Hot chocolate?”

Peter was soaked, sogging wet from head to toe. A real mess that ought not be dirtying May’s pristine kitchen floor. But nothing compared to the mess of his mind.

Peter was rendered mute by his inability to process—or articulate—this ultimate betrayal. It wasn’t like his uncle didn’t know how much Peter idolized Tony Stark. Hell, Ben himself took Peter to the Stark Expo every year, and, even now at fifteen, about 75% of his clothing was Iron Man themed. Peter had been reading his research papers since he was ten, googling and looking up every other word, and he had a scrap book in his back closet of every local newspaper article that mentioned the guy.

For Peter, Tony Stark was _it_ —the man he wanted to be when he grew up. Or, at the very least, the man Peter wanted impress just once. Just once. Maybe with some comment or some theorem or some research project— _something_.

Now, all Tony Stark knew of Peter Parker was that he was some punk ass kid in a poorly designed costume. Peter felt destroyed by this—and Ben would never understand. His role models were dead people, the men and women he quoted at Peter to win arguments. Peter couldn’t possibly put this hurt in context for him.

He tried anyway, feeling his eyes well up with angry tears. “You’ve ruined everything. Now he knows me, he knows what a- a- fuckup I am.”

“Watch your language,” Ben chided him, pulling down cups. “It was an anonymous tip, he doesn’t know who you are. But I thought maybe he could talk to you. He has a foundation just for troubled kids like you-”

“I am not a kid!” Peter shouted, feeling every inch of one. “Stop trying to run my life. You’re not-” Peter sucked in a breath, stopped talking.

To this day, he had no idea how he had the maturity then to bite down on and stop those words. But Ben heard them anyway. _You’re not my dad._ Peter had Ben’s heart, but he had May’s temper. He knew he had to apologize.

Instead, he bit the bullet and said exactly what he felt. “You have no right to tell me what to do. I won’t go back to the ring. You’ve officially ruined that for me. But you and I? We’re done.”

That was the night Peter and Ben stopped talking entirely. What a hell of a thing for poor May to wake up to.

But Peter dropped the wrestling gig, as he promised. It was probably for the best. Brito, who had been so recently helpful to him, was apparently mobbed up, which made his interest in “Richard Petrelli” 100% more suspicious. Peter didn’t take any more of his calls. Brito kept looking for him a little while longer until he was picked up by the cops for some other “gig”. A close call of a different sort, Peter figured.

He didn’t drop the other jobs, though. He did drop school, though, as soon as he was able. This freed him up to pick up a fourth job where discreet uses of his super strength were pretty helpful. His fellow warehouse workers were cold and suspicious of him, and he was cold and suspicious right back. He needed to maintain all four jobs. Peter Parker didn’t want or need friends.

It was a rough three years until Peter moved out.

May never gave up on him. He was young, she said. There was always time to change, time to turn around, time to make a course correction. As much as he loved her (loved Ben too, still, despite everything), Peter never reacted well to this. Instead, his stubbornness saw him digging himself deeper and deeper, and further and further away from the person everyone wanted him to be.

Peter would have been buried by the drudgery of his many jobs, turned bitter and jaded, had he not come across three thugs hauling a man out of his car at three in the morning in Queens. They threw him to the ground and, oblivious to his screaming, started kicking and stomping him viciously.

Peter was just barely eighteen, caught out on the street, desperately unequipped with only his mismatched shoes and a gallon of milk to help. “Hey,” he whispered. But on the empty street, there was no one around to hear him. No one around to act. “Hey!” No one but him.

So he charged across the street and threw his milk at the closest thug. The thug’s yelp was cut off by a blow to his throat, and by the time his friends picked up on the fact there was a fifth person on the street that night, that same thug had already been used as a battering ram against them.

Peter hadn’t lost anything that he had learned as Richard Petrelli—and returning to fighting was freeing. There was a rightness in his limbs and his senses, like this was the way he was meant to be. The strangers got in exactly one hit, and no more. Peter was too much and too skilled for them, and the fight ended way too soon.

Peter stood there, panting, fists clenched tight and surrounded by fallen criminals. It was anti-climatic, and he found himself wildly wishing there had been 2- no, 6 more guys. He would fight them all!

Then the victim, wavering to his feet behind him, burst into tears. Knocked out of his head, Peter stood still, letting the victim hug him.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” the man babbled, hanging on to Peter’s arm. He’d thought everyone would let him die there on the street. He’d been attacked by these guys before in broad daylight, he said. No one cared. No one looked up from their phones. New York apathy at its finest.

Then the victim started teetering off to the left, almost passing out in Peter’s arms. Peter ended up taking him to the closest Urgent Care. The more the man sat there, apologizing and offering to pay or feed him, the more settled in his body Peter felt. The high of fighting was fleeting. But the rightness of helping people? It stayed.

Something like a plan started forming in that Urgent Care. For the first time since May was diagnosed, he was starting to think of what he wanted to do with his life. May—and Ben—would be so proud. He dropped any aspirations of inventing things or researching cures when he realized his choices were college or May. But there was more to life than science. Peter knew he wanted to help people.

But how? Firefighters were awesome, but their scope was limited. He could study to be an EMT, but it would require more schooling than he was prepared for. Besides, he didn’t want to slap band aids on things. He wanted to stop the wounds from happening in the first place.

He should be a cop! Who else tangled with the street-level bad guys? Yeah, Peter was going to be a cop, he decided. Cops were awesome.

Emboldened by this new plan, he did his research, volunteered for a few things, and went on a couple of ride-a-longs. As one of his other infrequent side jobs, he even facilitated an article between a cool senior detective and the Daily Bulge, for which he took some pictures. Misty Knight was so cool. She’d seen and done so many things. Peter wanted to be just like her.

For a while, all was right in the world. Peter studied up and started eyeing the academy. Peter bought a police scanner and started listening in. Peter volunteered his butt off in whatever capacity they would let him.

Then Peter ran into his first set of corrupt cops. It didn’t end well. Armed with a camera all the time those days, Peter documented the shake down as much as he could. Then he presented the evidence to the cops he volunteered with. The men thanked him for the information, but no one moved on it. Peter would find out later that his photos never left the desk he dropped them on. At the time, he couldn’t understand it, and the more he looked into police corruption, the madder he became. Some of them were just as bad as the criminals, and even the good ones had their backs.

He gave up his career aspirations then and there. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be a part of an institution that turned a blind eye that kind of stuff. Back to square one, it seemed, and he was angrier than ever.

Then the Devil walked into the subway.

As one could expect of New Yorkers, this abnormal circumstance was completely ignored beyond the most cursory of side-eyes. Peter, though? Peter stared. He might have lived in a city of superheroes and enhanced folk, but it was New York, and New York was huge. The last time he had been so close to one, his livelihood as the Spider was being destroyed. Peter was entranced.

Peter was only nineteen, and Daredevil was still wearing his charming black suit back then, all raggedy ends and loose folds and, on that day at least, an exposed and bleeding bullet wound. He was standing and conscious and very much trying to ignore Peter’s fixed gaze. But he didn’t exit at the next few stops so, trying his luck, Peter got up with every stop, moving closer and closer.

Then, jittery, Peter started talking. And he talked and he talked and he talked. He talked until Matt looked distinctly caged and uncomfortable, oversharing about his jobs, his tense relationship with his family, Aunt May’s cancer, and his inability to land on the one perfect job that would satiate his need to help people.

“-like you did,” Peter said, sucking in a breath.

“Maybe get your shit together before you start taking on other people’s burdens,” the Devil had growled.

Peter blinked. It was the first and last time Matt spoke to him in that subway. It was surprisingly good advice. Hypocritical, of course. But definitely solid advice. He didn’t even protest when Daredevil escaped his chatty subway neighbor at the next stop, because Matt had given him a lot to think about.

So Peter doubled down on his life. He worked hard on narrowing down his jobs to just one well-paying position. May, who never gave up on convincing him to go back to school, finally twisted his arm enough, and he started grudgingly taking up a handful of community college courses. It was a mistake, really, instantly revitalizing his love of biochemistry and biophysics, two careers he’d never have a shot in. Always a glutton for punishment, he kept going, passing all of his classes with flying colors.

And as far as his concern about street level baddies, well, that might be where he went a little rogue. He pulled his black and white wrestling suit back out and redesigned it red and blue. After all, if Daredevil could play at being a vigilante, couldn’t Peter too?

He didn’t do much in those days, mostly foiling muggings and assaults, so it was easy to keep his jobs and his schooling and his “other” job completely separate. Until he didn’t, and he lost the best paying one over an “unreliable and flaky attitude”. Peter was used to bouncing from horrible housing to horrible housing, but the loss of that job suddenly put him at a real risk of becoming homeless, which was not something he was ready to deal with.

“I’ll send you last month’s money back,” May had said loyally over the phone when he called to panic at her.

“Come on, no. It’s fine. I’ll be fine,” Peter told her.

“Don’t give me that. And don’t you dare send me money this month either. We’re doing alright here. I have better insurance this year. Focus on figuring out your housing.” After a beat, she said, “You know, you could always come home too.”

Peter wasn’t going to go home. In the end, he stubbornly sent back the money she gave him and gave her the usual cut of his monthly earnings. Then he became homeless. Or some version of homeless, anyway. The one that leaned on the sympathies of acquaintances and couch surfed for three months.

It was a rough time.

He rode out the rest of the semester, though, knowing he wouldn’t be back. Plus, his fellow college students, similarly strapped, were often the easiest marks for a borrowed couch, and Peter usually had a little money left to spare for pizza and beer. Summer was going to be rough, and he was dreading it.

Then an opportunity straight from fate plopped in his lap one day during lab. Almost as an afterthought, his professor mentioned that Oscorp was opening up their internship process once more that year, and anyone who had an interest in that field should consider applying.

It was a paid internship too, only $1.50 short of the wage of Peter’s “good” job. If he got the internship, he could figure out his housing and keep money flowing to the Parker household—win, win. Even so, it seemed too good to be true to Peter, but he would later find out the hyper-perfectionistic Norman Osborn was willing to take on even “lowly” community college interns if it meant he would have another body in the lab to do manual labor.

So Peter applied online, receiving a response almost immediately. After a quick phone interview, he was told to show up at the main corporate office in Manhattan at 8 am sharp Monday morning for his internship orientation. It seemed like his luck was finally turning around.

But that Monday, Peter wasn’t sent through the internship orientation. He was processed instead through the corporate side for a desk job he was frankly unqualified for.

The first hint he got that something was wrong when he realized that his orientation packet read Peter Parkley, not Peter _Parker_. Ready to resign himself to an innocent office typo, he flipped open his packet, reviewing a resume that was so very clearly not his own. Then he read further on, speeding through the terms, the pay, and the upfront benefits. By the time he was done? Peter was no longer interested in pointing out their mistake. He was going to ride this train as long as he could.

Looking back, Peter still couldn’t believe they didn’t jump on him immediately. Then again, they hadn’t done a background check yet, nor did they have his driver’s license or social security number. All they had was a resume and someone’s vague memory of interviewing the man. That same someone could show up at the door at any second. Peter was prepared to fold instantaneously, like a cheap chair. Hopefully without crying.

Peter somehow made it through the entire orientation. And when the HR assistant swung by, asking for his information, Peter gave it all to her. Somehow, he screwed up the nerve to point out the changed address and contact information as well as the mistyped last name, and he did it all without his pants exploding spontaneously into flames. They were processing too many people that day, it seemed, because the lady didn’t even question it. She just made the changes in her tablet and moved on, speaking to the next orientated staff person.

How he made it through that day, through his first month of work without dying of a heart attack, he didn’t know. He certainly felt as if he’d had a neon sign flashing _liar, liar, liar_ over his head the entire time. Worse still, he heard later that the intern pool he was part of was completely dropped within two weeks of their promised twelve week experience.

He hoped Parkley hadn’t been with them. He thought about the guy constantly, wondering if the guy had been as confused as he was by the “typo” but willing to endure it for a chance to make it in one of New York’s fastest growing companies. And Norman Osborn was notoriously brutal to his interns. Peter had applied, knowing this, but did Parkley? Peter himself hoped he would at least get a few months that he could leverage into a position at Stark Industries or Rand Enterprises.

Instead, Peter was a receptionist, far away from the science and work he craved. At the same time, though, Peter the Receptionist made two more dollars an hour with five more hours a week than Peter the Intern, so Peter Parker kept his goddamn mouth shut, kept his head down, speaking to HR never. Unless he had to. And if what he did to Parkley was his first taste of what it was like to step on someone to get higher in a company, he made a decision then and there that he would never, ever do that to another person again. And he didn’t.

Of course, a receptionist didn’t do much stepping, did they? How great was it to have a job where he could be _nice_ to people? Peter loved filing too, weirdly. And corporate meetings were fascinating, no matter the subject. Though Peter did eventually learn to tone down the questions. Because he didn’t want to make splashes. He didn’t want attention. While he was generally helpful and polite, keeping a smile even during the roughest of times, he didn’t want anyone to think too highly of him.

Peter Parker, corporate drone! Average, but competent. _Reliable._

The reliable bit was the hardest compromise he had to make with his other half. This meant that sometimes Peter had to stay put at work from start to finish, even if some supervillain was ripping up Time Square. Peter couldn’t risk his job. No way. Those couple of months couchsurfing had hardened his resolve on that front, if not his heart. But Peter wasn’t the only enhanced person in New York, and if there was something this company had taught him, it was the almighty power of networking.

Peter was 21 by the time he had his unwitting mentor, Daredevil, as well as the Four on speed dial. He was 22 by the time the full set of Defenders would heed his call, and it was that summer that he got the X-Men team’s grudging support. By the time he was 23, he had a fully-functioning Spidey Clone army at his beck and call.

Just in time too, because at 24, he was head hunted and brought in by the Executive Assistance department—the exact sort of attention he’d been trying to avoid. Worse, they had known about the Parker-Parkley mix up the entire time; weirdly, they mistook his utter cowardice as extreme discretion, loyalty to the company, and a desire to avoid unneeded lawsuits. These things were evidently important to executive assistants. That he had a case for suing Oscorp was news to Peter, but he nodded along agreeably. He wasn’t stupid.   

Executive assistants were _weird_. While most people supervised their own assistants, only Norman Osborn supervised the executive assistants. They were never given, never asked for—always assigned. An executive assistant was there to assist and evaluate “underperforming” executives. While it was commonly joked that all executives were underperforming compared to Norman, their small department tended to only be deployed when there was a serious problem at hand, like fraud, embezzlement, or insider trading.

It was a sneaky way of sloughing off dead weight. On one hand, yes, executive assistants did help the board gather enough evidence and data to get rid of bad actors in the system, but some of the executives were just plain incompetent, not malicious. Peter didn’t understand why Oscorp didn’t rely on performance evaluations like everyone else. All he could figure was that the system was a holdover from when Oscorp was a five-man lab in lower Manhattan that Osborn controlled with an iron fist.

It was all kind of skeevy, really. But skeevy was Peter’s name ever since he jumped into the ring to beat up guys who had no chance against him, ever since he hip bumped Peter Parkley out of what was probably his dream career.

Plus, Peter the Executive Assistant made $30 an hour, plus benefits. He could deal with the skeeviness.

Besides, if you looked at it through a certain lens, an Oscorp executive assistant was the closest thing the corporate world had to a Spidey. What other role was so finely tuned to drain the infection out of a corporate wound? To be given such a role was almost destiny, really.

The best executive assistants his department had were the ones who cared about the company and wanted to protect both it and the public. Peter wasn’t the best—he could take or leave Oscorp, Norman was a dick—but he wanted to protect people in his city. And what was Oscorp but a highly concentrated subsection of the city he loved so much? Peter could deal with his job, and happily too. He was doing an important thing here.

Then Peter was given Harry.

Peter was at a loss with Harry. The assignment didn’t make sense to Peter. Most of his executives were crap people, like Warner, who propositioned the corporate interns for sex. Or Maynard, who slept on the job and downloaded porn on the company servers. Or Fallon, who embezzled Oscorp funds through coffee purchases that never materialized. Peter understood those assignments very well.

But Harry wasn’t like them at all. Harry was charismatic, a business leader. He was four years out of an MBA program from Empire State and had graduated summa cum laude. Under him, sales increased by 27%, they had more prospective clients than ever in the pipeline, and many more investors and partners were reaching out to them for current and future projects. And, in the last year, Oscorp narrowly beat out both Rand Enterprises and Stark Industries as the top business to work at in New York, a position it hadn’t held in over ten years.

And it was all because of Harry. The public liked him, the investors respected him, and the media wanted to quote him. Hell, Harry would have been a great politician if he didn’t like people so much, and if he didn’t so dearly want people to like him in return.

Harry just didn’t have the brain for the research and development that his father did, and this was evidently the crux of the problem Peter was sent to evaluate.

It didn’t make sense. Sure, Peter had seen Harry’s lack of understanding first hand. It was bad enough that he pretended to be a college student so he could have his future girlfriend tutor him in science. But it wasn’t a weakness. It was just a strength he didn’t have. And, truly, Harry was in good company. Peter could count the number of Oscorp executives who fully understood their products on just one hand.

To Norman, though, this was unacceptable. A mortal flaw. A defect with the child that would inherit his kingdom.

No. If Harry really did have a flaw, it was his issues with his identity—and all of that stemmed back to his shitty, genius father. Well, that, and a seriously bad case of imposter syndrome.

Peter didn’t have the same. He knew who he was. What he was.

Peter “Skeevy” Parker, beloved nephew to May Parker. Estranged nephew to Benjamin Parker. Executive Assistant III to Harry Osborn, V.P. of Sales and Acquisitions. Occasional fling of Deadpool, mercenary.

Spider-Man.

Or one of them, anyway.

 

-

 

A good merc knew a thing or two about foot traffic. Weird, right? But if you think about it, mercenaries were really people watchers at heart. Just with guns and knives and deadly intent instead of boredom and a sense of superiority. Anyway, Wade had been here at Oscorp long enough to memorize where tired feet scurry when their owners really wanted to Netflix and chill from the comfort of their homes.

For example, there was a certain set of stairs at Oscorp that saw the most foot traffic at the end of business hours. Situated on the same side as the parking structure, these stairs avoided the often-crowded elevators and emptied out on four levels across from doors that led straight to the car park.

It was an easy sell, really. Many at Oscorp took the four flights of stairs and called it their daily workout. Many a Oscorp drone also took the stairs as an opportunity to chit chat with a coworker, not realizing that them talking shit about their supervisor echoed all the way up and down the flights of stairs.

It was an easy sell for Wade too. Tight spaces, hard concrete, few exits, many opportunities for fall damage—oh, and very, very few security cameras.

Plus, the acoustics here were really great. Wade liked to hang out here sometimes and just listen. Office workers were like aliens to him—so weird in their little office things and their little office dramas and their little office romances. If Wade was in the blackmail business, oh boy! The stories he could tell…

But today, it wasn’t as entertaining. He’d planted himself on the lowest level of the stairs in the back corner, completely out of sight. His ass was numbing to the cold, and he was bored. Only a handful of people turned around to see him. Eyes on his Adventure Time watch, Wade gave them an unconcerned wave. They scuttled off.

Tick tock. Tick tock. It was a long time until 5 pm. Longer still until a familiar clip of worn out soles met Wade’s ears as their owner took the steps two at a time. Grinning wordlessly, Wade tipped his head up. Showtime.

“ _Everytime we say goodbye_ ,” he sang quietly. “ _I die a little_.”

The footsteps slowed. Wade’s grin widened. Great acoustics. Almost better than a bathroom. “ _Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little. Why the Gods above me, who must be in the know-_ ” Peter rounded the last set of stairs, eyes wide. “ _-think so little of me, they allow you to go._ ”

Peter was wearing the blue tie today, Wade’s favorite. It hung, crumpled, over the stretch of his white button up shirt and his loosely buttoned black blazer. A worn leather strap pulled tight over Peter’s left shoulder, holding up his work bag. Peter’s arms crossed over his chest, his bright eyes and his smile giving him away. “What song is that?”

“You uncultured heathen,” Wade said fondly, standing up. Oops, numb ass. He limped a little bit forward before draping himself over Peter. “Honey bunches.” He nuzzled into Peter contently, squeezing Peter to him.

His grumpy boy stood there, taking his weight admirably, body stiff but oh so lovely and warm. Could one get frostbite from concrete? Brr!

“Two times in one week?” Peter quipped. “What are you, bored?”

Always with the claws, this one. “No, I missed you.” Wade smacked a masked kiss against Peter’s cheek.

Against him, Peter relaxed in hitches. After a few seconds, his arms even dropped from his chest and curled around Wade’s hips instead—success! Wade wiggled in excitement. How unexpected! He’d planted himself here, dying for his Peter fix and expecting scraps, not this—mutual cuddles! Wade wasn’t stupid enough to take this for granted, no. No adjusting of expectations here. It was okay, though. Wade had survived on less, and he’d take whatever Peter had to offer. Anything at all, really. Heart eyes, motherfucker-

Then Peter muttered, “You probably don't date… do you?”

Wade tensed. Peter tensed. Wade tensed more because Peter had tensed, and then Peter was pushing away, leaving Wade to grasp at empty air. Aw.

Peter made horrible, awful eye contact—in that he was very, very good at it. In fact, he stared into Wade’s mask like he was bound and determined to win a contest against the universe. He was upset, and his eyes screamed it.

“Sorry, I’m reading into this too much, right? Just because you keep singing me love songs doesn’t mean-” Peter sucked in a huge breath and he blinked rapidly.

Wade was frozen. His brain was the mental equivalent of that ball clacky thing some employees had on their desk, swinging back and forth without stop. Clack clack clack-

Across from him, Peter’s face was reddening, but not in the way that Wade liked. Not like when he blushed over something Wade said, a goofy and unpracticed smile springing to his lips. Not like when Peter was trying not to laugh at something Wade did, pink racing over his cheeks like it had somewhere to be. Not like when Peter, blindfolded, bowed his head, waiting for Wade to touch him, receptive and waiting and oh so very beautifully trusting. 

Peter looked away finally, eyes seeking out an exit. “Forget it, it's stupid.”

No no no _no no_ -

Wade’s toy brain stopped its incessant clacking just in time for Wade to catch up to Peter at the opening door. He slammed a palm into it, closing it. Then he punched down hard on the door knob, breaking it off.

Then his brain caught up with his body and he froze again, this time in sudden fear.

Peter stood stock still, back to Wade’s chest. He stared at the property damage a little before swinging slowly to look at Wade. Ah. A different kind of red. Angry Peter—so much better than Upset Peter! By a certain degree, anyway.

Wade wilted. “…I panicked.”

“That was so unnecessary,” Peter hissed. “What’s so damn offensive about what I said that you want to force a confrontation about it?”

Wade bit at his lip worriedly. He twiddled his thumbs. “I don’t. Date?”

“I get that. Now?” Peter said, copying his inflection like the beautiful brat he was.

Wade pouted at him. “Well, there’s a reason for it…”

Peter’s arms came up again, crossing hatefully over his chest. Wade stared down at them mournfully. So much progress, lost in an instant. “Your sparkling personality? Your wit? Your past?”

Ouch.

“My looks, actually!” Wade’s voice was falsely bright. He plucked at the wrist of his suit. He thought about giving Peter a sneak peek, a sampling of the mess Peter was really dealing with under this sexy, sexy costume.

His fingers trembled. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear to see Peter’s sweet, grumpy face twist in horror or disgust or revulsion. Wade would absolutely get where he was coming from, sure. He had the dubious pleasure of having both a before shot and an after shot of his ugly mug—and, damn, he used to be so, so fine. But if Peter flinched from him… there was no way Wade would ever be able to speak to him again.

And he just couldn’t deal with that. _Please don’t go. We’ll eat you up, we love you so!_

So he decided to swap his Show and Tell for just Tell. Like a coward. “My skin’s a close brother to the shit they wrap around the Necronomicon,” Wade said bluntly. “Think Jason Vorhees. Or Freddy Krueger. Think Jason and Freddy putting aside their differences, making sweet, sweet love in a pile of dead teenage corpses. Then one of them gets pregnant, and it turns into domestific for 50K words-”

“You done?” Peter asked dryly.

“Ooh, and then the baby burst out of someone’s chest—like Alien! And it’s on fire for some reason.”

Peter’s eyebrows were knit together in confusion.

Wade dropped his head, tone turning serious. “My skin. My partners—the real ones, anyway, not the paid ones—they always want to see it. And when they do, it’s done.”

There was a long pause. Then Peter tangled his fingers around Wade’s wrist gently, just for a moment. “Wade…” Wade braced himself for the empty platitude. Then Peter bit his lip, shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t need to see your skin.”

Wade blinked at him. His eyes narrowed. “ _¿Qué? No entiendo lo que me dices_ ,” he said, because English wasn’t making sense.

Peter blinked once. “What’s there not to understand?”

Wade tented his fingers together by his stomach. “Um…” Seriously. He could drag that one word out into a three-hour movie, guys. Peter’s eyes were darkening, though, so Wade wisely cut it off. “The fact that you’ll date a guy whose face and body you’ll never see?”

Now that Wade was being a putz about it, Peter was throwing off vibes of apathy, and, squee, wasn’t that so _them_? Yes, no. Push, pull. Ice, fire. Fox News, nuanced journalism.

“If that’s what you need to feel comfortable,” Peter said slowly, “then, yes.”

Wade tried to see where Peter was coming from. He shook his head. “I can’t believe you.”

Peter’s play at being aloof snapped like frozen glass under boiling water. “Well, I can’t believe you have so little basic trust in my ability to make decisions for myself, _Wade_ ,” he bit back.

Peter was scowling at him and Wade was scowling right back, and this was so so stupid.

Wade finally exploded. “Fine! Fine,” he snapped, jabbing a thumb into his own collarbone. “You want me? You got me. I am going to date you so fucking hard, you brat.”

Peter tipped his chin up. “If you think you can handle it,” he taunted.

Wade sucked in an outraged breath. Oh boy. He had such a _weird_ boner right now. “Oh, I don’t think you’re ready for how much I can handle it,” Wade purred, unable to help himself. Then he shook himself out of it. Eyes on the prize, Wilson! “I have ground rules.”

“Me too,” Peter blustered wrong-footedly. His pupils were blown out. He was chewing on his lip, which, wow, unfair. It made Wade want to crowd him up against a wall and take it back. They had never had sex in one of the stairways before, and if Wade was strong enough, today would not break their perfect record. Petey wouldn’t forgive him. Too much foot traffic.   

“Good, I’m glad we’re communicating,” Wade hissed. He lifted a finger. “One, you let me know when we're through. No limping around like the wild west’s last cowboy and his dead horse.”

Peter was already nodding. “Ditto.”

Wade added a finger. “Two, if we date? I am your one and only. I got nothing against open relationships. Been there, done that. But I do have something with my hunny's hunnies trying to do me in. Ja feel?”

“Yeah. Do you?”

Uh, rude! Like Wade was the one with doe-like eyes and the kissable nose and movie star hair and legs for days—and dat ass. _Come on._

“Three, you got a conflict of interest? You let me know as soon as possible. I may heal, but I don't want any knives in the back.”

Peter sucked in a breath, mouth contorted like he was about to say something biting. Then his face crumbled. “God, who have you dated in the past, DP?”

After a beat, Peter looked down, a tiny frown on his face. Overwhelming fondness ripped through the lingering frustration he had with Peter. What a sweet, sweet grumpy boy. He’d be so much better at being a snarky asshole if he didn’t have a guilty conscience the size of Montana.

Wade tipped his chin up. “And yours?” he asked tenderly, unable to help himself.

Peter’s eyes moved up, past him, like he was thinking. Good. “Don’t push me farther than I’ll go,” he said finally.

“Goes without saying.” Like he’d ever want something without explicit and enthusiastic consent.

Peter’s eyes didn’t move. “And don't break my heart.”

Well, if that didn’t drop kick Wade out of his mood. He tried to reassemble himself awkwardly, bracing an arm up against the wall in a casual lean. “Um. Forget me. Who the fuck have you dated? Addresses and last names, please.”

That earned him Peter’s eyes again, and the corner of his mouth ticked up. “Shut up.” He shoved at Wade’s arm.

Somehow, this potentially ugly conversation had taken a playful turn. Wade could tell by the smiles and the touching. Peter kept his hands away from Wade when he was angry, and that- that meant a lot. So Wade shoved him back. Midway, though, Wade changed his mind and caught his sleeve, reeling him back in.

Peter’s mouth was forced into a downward curve, but there were creases at the corners of his eyes, a suspicious glittering that gave too much away.

Wade leaned in real close, then whispered in a sing-song tone, “You like me.”

Peter side-eyed him, judging him. “We’ve established this.”

“Peter.” His full name, no frills and no substitutes, finally caught Peter’s full attention. “What am I supposed to think? You never acknowledge me outside of your office building.” Wade thought he understood his place in Peter’s life—at least, he thought he did until twenty minutes ago.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s only because the last time I saw you outside of work, you were trying to cram five hot dogs down your throat.”

Wade stroked a thumb down Peter’s cheek, his mouth twitching. “Don’t pretend you weren’t impressed.” Peter looked away from him sharply; Wade had a feeling Peter would have preferred being the one with a mask. His face gave him away too easily. So he kept it serious. “We’ve also known each other for months, and you’ve never invited me back to your place.”

Peter was side-eyeing him again. “It’s not like you ever brought me back to your apartment either.”

Well. Fuck him if that wasn’t true. Wade blinked rapidly. “Oh, lightbulb,” he whispered. With swiftness and dexterity, Wade hauled Peter straight off his feet, bag and all, clamping a forearm under Peter’s ass. Peter yelped at this, balancing himself on Wade’s shoulder. “Come home with me tonight.”

“Wade-” Peter started to complain, already cranky.

“Come home with me.” Wade’s mouth was twitching. “I’ll show you where the magic-” Wade threw his head back and laughed. “Almost got that out without breaking. _Damnit._ ”

“Put me down,” Peter growled warningly. His fingers were achingly tight.

Obediently, Wade did just as he asked, letting Peter slid down to the floor without problem. Wade was a little sad at the loss of height; he so did like looking up at Petey. “Come on, Petey. I won’t ask you twice.”

Peter was tugging his clothes back in order. “You’ve asked me more than-mph.” Whatever he was going to say was lost to all time because a sudden masked kiss blocked his words. He laughed. “Fine. Fine! Twist my arm, why don’t you…”

Oh. Looking down at Petey was just as delightful. Even if Peter was entirely wrong-headed about the whole dating thing, at least Wade would get to look at him some more, talk to him some more, tease him some more. And timing wouldn’t be such a bitch either. Then Wade could give Peter everything he wanted, and more.

Sometime in the space of Wade getting lost in Peter’s eyes, Peter had somehow managed to open the broken door. He rifled through his bag and pulled out a pen, angling it under the door to force it to stay open.

“The people after us will thank you,” Wade said with praise. Peter rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, let’s go,” Peter said, a laugh in his voice. He started walking away. “I’ve always wanted to see Casa de Deadpool.”

Oof, that was a good point. Which one of his safehouses was the least horrifying to guests? He was a “burn it down, start over” kind of guy, much to the chagrin of his landlords. Ugh, he better figure that out, and fast. There had to be one good enough for his Petey-pie. Even his bombass new apartment wouldn’t make the cut, mostly because the “bomb” part wasn’t metaphorical.

In the meantime…

Wade leaned into the stairway railing, looking up. “You can come down now, it’s safe!”

“…Oh thank god,” someone muttered. There was a clap then, like someone slapping a hand over their mouth.

Great acoustics here. 10/10.

 

-

 

“Murder? That’s quite an accusation, Ms. Jones.” Harry was pleased with the sound of his own voice—low but not hushed, neutral but not dismissive, concerned but not guilty. It was the only way to respond to such a baseless claim.

Jessica Jones of Alias Investigations sat across from him on the other side of his desk. She looked distinctly out of place in his office—disarray to his order. Anger to his calm. A torn faux-leather jacket in juxtaposition with his very expensive imported Italian leather chair. She was as bad tempered as the rumors claimed she was, not a professional bone in her. She’d been arrested and released just the day before for trespassing at a lesser known Oscorp property, so Harry’s opinion of her was already low.

That said, Harry wouldn’t have normally known about this—or even cared—but this was also about the time Harry’s spooked subordinates finally gave him a heads up about her month-long attempt to get Harry’s attention. Peeved by the whole situation, Harry set up an appointment with her immediately. As far as Harry was concerned, if she’d kept it up for a month, then whatever she wanted was important.

Besides, Jessica Jones wasn’t known for wasting people’s time. She was known for being rude, insufferable, and a raging alcoholic—but also a hero nevertheless. A helper of the helpless. A bleeding heart. And a very good friend of Harry’s favorite superhero, Spider-Man.

“The only thing these people have in common is that they had evidence of Oscorp’s wrongdoings,” Jessica countered, arms crossed over her chest. “How do you explain that?”

Harry gave it a beat. Then another. Then he folded his hand together, leaning forward. “And where is this evidence, Ms. Jones?” he asked evenly.

Jessica didn’t know. That much was evident in her face, in the way her eyes flickered away and her lip curled in a grimace.

Nodding, Harry stood, making a small gesture towards his window, and his door opened, letting in a cop in plain clothes. “This is Detective Martine. He is investigating the deaths you are interested in. Rob, this is Jessica Jones from Alias Investigations.”

Detective Robert Martine was a veteran on the force, and a very large man. He dwarfed Harry and Jessica both in height and girth, and he had a steel gray handlebar mustache to match his coarse military hairdo. He was a physically impressive guy, for a certain definition of impressive that didn’t include, say, Captain America or the Hulk.  He had an excellent record too, and had confided in Harry that he was pursuing a possible gang lead for these unfortunate murders. Harry had full confidence in him.

Jessica and the detective eyed each other. “We’ve met,” she said dryly, standing.

Martine flinched back away from her. Harry frowned at him. “Good. Then I’m sure he’ll be happy to redirect your investigation.”

“Right. ‘Redirect’,” Jessica parroted, complete with air quotes.

“Oscorp isn’t involved in this, Ms. Jones,” Harry chided her, disapproving.

Jessica grinned briefly, nothing of it reaching her eyes. She leaned into him, seemingly oblivious to the way Martine leaned back even further. “Got the local precinct in your back pocket, and you still want to argue that you’re a good guy?” Her eyes were dark and angry, but also strangely disappointed.

At that, Harry hesitated. He _was_ a good guy. He paid his taxes and donated to charity and treated his people right. Sure, he wasn’t the guy who climbed into a collapsing building to save people, but he was alright. He certainly wasn’t a murderer, and it didn’t sit right with him to think that Jessica saw him as someone who didn’t care about people who had lost their lives. Especially if they were attached to Oscorp, fraudulently or otherwise.

Harry made a split-second decision. “Rob,” he said evenly. “Could you give Ms. Jones and I another minute?”

Rob looked between the two of them worriedly. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Reluctantly, Rob headed back out, closing the door behind him. Jessica plopped back down on the chair warily. Harry rounded the table, leaning a hip against it. “Look, I’m not blind to the fact that bad things happen in corporations,” he said earnestly, rubbing his eyes. “We see it all the time. The more money is pushed around, the more bad stuff happens. Fraud, embezzlement, harassment, blackmail-”

“Murder.”

“Murder,” he agreed. “But Oscorp has a rigorous process to make sure the people in charge are ethical and are acting in good faith to our stakeholders, investors, and clients. Murder is the antithesis of that.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Cut the PR bullshit. You’re here to make money, full stop.” Her lip pulled back into a snarl. “Why else is your precious Vitanova already being valued at $50,000 a treatment?”

Harry buried his resentment of that question down deep. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know the argument Harry had—and lost—with his father and the board of directors. He stuck to the party line. “We’ve been developing the product for over three decades, Ms. Jones. We need to recoup the investment of that research-”

“Save it. I’m not interested in your snake oil. The only thing I care about are these people, and their families, and finding an answer for them.”

“I hope you do,” Harry said honestly. “But Ms. Jones, you won’t find your answers by pointing fingers.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she abruptly stood. As small she was, she had a presence and an easy balance to her, like most super heroes.

A strained look behind the eyes. Like most super heroes.

“I’ll go through you. You’re not the obstacle you think you are.” She leveled at him a long, searching glance. Whatever she was looking for, she couldn’t find it. Jessica scoffed quietly and rooted in her jacket pocket. She took out a photo and tossed it onto his table. “Here, keep the photo.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, already reaching.

Jessica watched him. “It’s the last person Oscorp killed.” It was too late. Harry had already flipped it over.

She left a moment later, marching past other Oscorp employees without a care. If Harry had looked up, he would have seen Martine hurry after her—to redirect her or ask her opinion or threaten her away from the case, Harry couldn’t have told you.

Because his whole world had been absorbed by that picture, his brain misfiring over the sight of horrible, horrible bruising over a thin, pale neck. He wasn’t even seeing it—not really. Instead, his skin was swamped by a cold, crawling feeling, dread ticking meanly-

-and then he was slammed on his back in his apartment, the back of his head smacking harshly on wood floor. Woozily, he lifted his head, seeing nothing but familiar darkness and his beloved red and blue spandex, ripped to shreds. 

Then a heavy weight dropped on his stomach, metal and padding and armor and green, and two cruel hands wrapped themselves around his throat, arresting a scream.

**_YOU RUINED EVERYTHING, YOU STUPID BOY-_ **

Then Harry flinched and the memory was gone. He was back in his office, safe. For a certain definition of safe, anyway. Sweating, he picked up the picture again. As he looked at it, he massaged his throat. Poor woman. He flipped it over. There wasn’t anything he could do about that—or… other stuff.

There was something he could do about his staff, though. Frowning, Harry turned back to his computer, needing answers.

Why the hell was this kept from him? If Alias Investigations was trying to tie them to the gang murders, then she had at least a shred of evidence—and even a shred was too much for Harry. After all, if Oscorp was linked to murders, even tangentially, it would tank their stock like crazy. Why hadn’t such a PR disaster  been brought to his attention immediately?

Harry had just sent out some email feelers to his staff when Peter speed-walked into his office, closing the door behind him.

Peter turned to him, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Um?” he said demandingly.

Harry chuckled roughly in relief. “Right?” At least Peter wasn’t involved. Peter was a horrible liar and an even more horrible actor.

Peter approached his desk. “You piss off Alias Investigations?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quickly. “Apparently, there’s dead bodies involved too.”

“What?” Peter barked, visibly alarmed.

Harry hesitated, then tossed the photo over to him. Peter caught it between two fingers, then carefully cradled it between his palms, looking down at it. Watching his upset expression, Harry wondered belatedly if maybe he should have spared Peter the sight. Peter’s heart was kinder than his. Plus, Harry had been groomed from birth to lead his father’s company, which had always had a health component. Harry wasn’t going to ever get through life without at least one person accusing him of killing someone.

Peter, on the other hand…

“I haven’t heard about any of this,” Peter muttered.

What was done was done. “Keep your ear to the ground, okay?” When Peter looked up, Harry waved a dismissive hand, lightening his tone. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re supposed to use your evil powers against me, not for me, but… I’ll buy you a latte?”

Peter smiled, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Biggest and most expensive one on the menu, Osborn,” he threatened, gently and reverently replacing the photo on Harry’s desk.

Without saying anything else, Peter walked out again, leaving as quickly as he came. He was grim, tight jawed, and strained about the eyes—just like Ms. Jones herself. Harry felt a little hollower for it, like he caused that somehow. Like he should have prevented it. He grabbed the photo and shoved it in his drawer, wanting the reminder gone.

Then Harry’s phone beeped—a text from one of his most discreet subordinates. _Order from up top_ , she revealed. _Sorry, boss._

Harry sagged back in his chair, stunned. Norman went around him. Norman ordered his team not to take this to him. Norman didn’t think he could handle it. But he was handling the Deadpool thing, wasn’t he?

Or was he?

Harry bit down on his lip, hands flattening over the edge of his desk. After a beat, he gripped it tightly, bones straining under the tension.

Once, when Harry was just ten years old, his favorite tutor lost her housing. Even though he was only vaguely aware of what being homeless was, he was distraught for her. It was winter! No one should have to live outside in the winter, let alone his favorite tutor. There was no way Norman would let her live with them, so Harry came up with the next best option—they should raise her rates and give her more hours. That would help her get up off her feet. Confident of his reasoning, he went to his father with this proposal.

Instead of paying her more or giving her more hours, Norman immediately fired her instead.

“Throwing money at a problem doesn’t resolve it,” his father had told him. “It just creates a line of people with their fingers in your pockets.”

Harry hadn’t learned the lesson Norman had tried to teach him that day, because wasn’t that exactly what was happening with Deadpool? Harry had thrown half a million dollars in contracts to the mutant already, and he hadn’t gone away at all. He was hanging around like a bad smell still, loitering around like a child given free reign in a toy shop. What other outcome could Harry have expected from that, really?

But that was Deadpool. This was Jessica Jones.

And Harry could handle a fucking private eye superhero wannabe without HIS GODDAMN FATHER STEPPING IN AND RUINING EVERYTHING-

Harry sucked in a surprised breath, pushing away from his table. There were two hand-shaped marks on the edge of his desk, denting it permanently.

 

-

 

The sound system was on its third repeat of Tony’s favorite Metallica album. Stirred from his thoughts at the familiar opening notes, Tony paused, stretching slowly until something popped in his upper back. He groped at the table until his hands found the flask of water he was supposed to be drinking every hour. He popped it open, draining it empty before dropping it to the floor. Dum-E scurried after it importantly, hand spinning wildly.

Tony was on his second review of the last night’s team up of Spidey, select Avengers, and two of the Four against the oddly themed Green Goblin. Sam had cracked Gobby’s mask this time—not much, just the bit over the villain’s weak chin—but it was enough to start a partial face construction. Tony could have had more, had Gobby not had some sort of interface in his mask’s lens. This interface made his eyes visible to the naked eye but practically gone to Tony’s scans. Tony suspected a HUD—which, frankly, was just another piece of evidence pointing to the fact that they were dealing with a highly sophisticated villain.

Steve was sketching what he could recall from his memory, but he was dubious that it would be accurate enough to add to Tony’s facial reconstruction.

If he was looking for compliments, he was barking up the wrong tree. Tony had no taste in art. He was fond of Iron Man pop art, Jackson Pollock, and anything super expensive that put someone’s panties in a twist. No, he was a tech geek at heart, which explained why he was sitting on a Friday night in front of a seven-screen holographic display—two of which were flashing code. He was already two hours late to the gala his frustrated fiancée had coordinated in partnership with a local charity, and Tony didn’t have to reach out to Pep to know he was in hot water. But sometimes it was better to say sorry than try and be someone he was not, only to disappoint her later.

And what he was, was obsessive. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Spider-Man.

Tony frowned. He paused the video on one screen and dragged the focus of it over to his favorite arachnid-themed superhero. Webs worried him last night. The kid was a frontline fighter, and he stayed that way past what was sane and reasonable. They all knew that. And when he didn’t take the lead, everyone automatically—subconsciously or otherwise—fell back around him in a loose circle.

If Spider-Man wasn’t quipping and drawing fire, Spider-Man was hurt. And last night, Spider-Man hung towards the back the whole time, quiet and nervous. He stayed close to Black Widow and Wasp. For once, he was actually tag teaming really well with Wasp instead of getting her tangled up in his webs. He didn’t fire those things once tonight either. He stayed on the ground the whole time, contributing little beyond acting as a convenient target for their villain of the day.

And when had Spider-Man started limping that night? Tony couldn’t find an obvious place in his suit’s recordings. By all accounts and measures, Spider-Man came in limping, fought limping, and left limping. It pissed Tony off. Spider-Man should know better than to jump into the fray while injured, especially for something that was such a non-emergency. Sure, the Green Goblin had gotten away again, and, sure, the creepy jackass probably had something bad up his metal and Kevlar sleeves. But Spider-Man wasn’t alone. He could have sat this one out.

But he wouldn’t exactly be a superhero if he was a-okay with sitting on the sidelines, would he?

Bothered, Tony tried to let it go, facing one of the screens with code instead. It was an algorithm that he had developed for the Avengers to use while training. Tony didn’t have the combat experience of Rhodey or Steve or Sam, or, Jesus, _Thor_ , but he was the living embodiment of smarter, not harder. Using Tony’s suit recordings, FRIDAY was able to use the algorithm to pinpoint everything from the speed of people’s reaction times to their blind spots and unconscious tells.

The day a “Midgardian” AI got to tell a Norse god about his blind spots and weaknesses was a glorious day indeed.

Yeah, the Avengers hated him for it, but so what? They grew stronger for it. So did the Four and Danny Rand when they took him up on his offer. So did the rest of the Defenders when Danny dragged them over. And, you know what? So did the X-Men, and their entire school was built on teaching kids how to get a handle on their powers. So there. Tony’s algorithm was awesome.

But Spider-Man always turned him down when he offered. He never trained with them. Not even once. Tony hated it. It wasn’t an ego thing. He wasn’t waiting with bated breath for some kid to play ball. He wasn’t that much of an egomaniac. No. It was… it was a little more important than that, really. A little more serious.

Tony wasn’t going to be Iron Man forever. That was a fact. If he didn’t croak first, he would be forcibly retired by everyone around him—and just you watch. He was going to drag Steve down with him, kicking and screaming. But things were only going to get weirder and harder down the line. Earth still needed the Avengers. And he knew in his gut that their future, their tomorrow, their standard bearer wasn’t going to be some random enhanced person on the street.

It wasn’t going to be Danny Rand and his ego or Matt Murdock and his guilt. It wasn’t going to be that weirdo shut-in, Stephen Strange, or one of Charles Xavier’s pet projects. It wasn’t going to be any of their current Avengers either, who looked more longingly at retirement than Tony ever would.

No. It was Spider-Man or bust. And Tony was willing to stake his life on it.

That was why Spidey’s distance was a perpetual pain in his ass. If he was already an Avenger, Tony’s job would be half done. But Spider-Man had turned down that offer twice. Tony didn’t get it. Under normal circumstances, Tony would just track down the kid, show up where he was unmasked, and force the conversation. But sometime within the last few years, Spider-Man had become untraceable.

No, that was a lie. He was certainly traceable; Tony knew this for a fact. He’d tried. It was just that none of the leads made any sense. They took him from Hell’s Kitchen to Brooklyn to Upper East End to Chinatown, spinning tails of trajectories that were all deeply contradictory to each other. Superhero tracker Twitter accounts were even at war with each other over Spider-Man’s whereabouts, getting up in arms and accusing each other of lying for the fame.

Spider-Man was a good kid, but he only wanted to engage with them on his terms. Somewhere, somehow, Fury was looking down at Tony and laughing heartlessly. Karma was such a bitch.

Grumbling to himself, Tony tweaked a couple more lines in the code before looking back at the rolling recording. He paused, just thinking. Then he dragged the modified algorithm over to that screen with a snap of his wrist. The visual flickered, turning black, white, and shades of gray like an old timey movie. Then, once the algorithm was fully integrated, Wasp and Widow were tinted yellow and red, respectively.

An overlay started helpfully identifying findings just as the recording started to play again at a quarter of the speed:

** BLACK WIDOW, bad landing. Resolution: ice knee, rest. **

Ha, yeah right. If there was anyone tripping into an early grave before Tony, it was Natasha. Her idea of first aid was vodka and walking it off.

** WASP, damaged suit. Resolution: seek help with repairs. Suggestion: seek Tony Stark- **

Like that would ever happen. It would be a cold day in hell before Hank Pym let him start tinkering with Hope’s suit.

Then, in the recording, one of the Green Goblin’s bombs landed on the floor between the two women. It rolled to a stop at Spider-Man’s feet, and Tony’s amusement drained quickly. Spider-Man was a dull gray silhouette, frozen in place. Both Natasha and Hope dove away quickly in streaks of color—one to the left, one to the right. Spider-Man dithered for a second before diving after Hope. All three got out of the way in time before it took a chunk out of the concrete with enough force to take off a limb.

But only just.

Tony nodded to himself once, mind already made up. He stood up from his chair. “FRIDAY, create a training profile for Spidey. Access all suit recordings from the last five months. Run an assessment of walking gait, extrapolate weight and height, etc. You know the drill.”

Why not? Sometimes, Spidey responded to carrots. And he had to be spooked by the Green Goblin by now. Surely this meant Webs would be more open to training, if only to better dodge Gobby’s intense fixation on him.

Tony accepted the filled water flask from the whirling Dum-E, and he lifted it to the screens. To his new, 36 step plan to recruit Spider-Man to the Avengers! May this one be more successful than the last three.

In the meantime, Tony had to make sure Pepper wasn’t planning his untimely demise. Pushing away Dum-E’s offered hoodie, Tony instead opened up a closet and pulled out a suit—Armani from five years ago. It was such a fashion faux-pas to wear something so old around the older money of New York, but anyone who cared about that sort of thing was the kind of person Tony didn’t want to be around anyway. Not anymore.

Tony sniffed it to make sure it passed the smell test—it did. He couldn’t remember the last time he had worn it. He slung it over his shoulder. “Have fun, FRIDAY.”

He’d almost stepped outside of his workshop when a grating, mechanical hiss ripped out of the speakers. “ **Undefined ERROR.** ” After a moment, FRIDAY’s normal, programmed Scottish accent returned. She sounded a bit perturbed. “Can’t do what you ask. Sorry, Boss.”

Tony abandoned the workshop door, approaching the flickering screens. “You are a learning machine, FRIDAY,” he lectured. “There is no sorry—make sense of it.” The screens flickered yellow and orange with her reproach. “FRIDAY, you stand on the shoulders of all AI before you. Deep Blue, Watson, AlphaGo-” JARVIS, he couldn’t say. “If it doesn’t fit the parameters I’ve made for you, _change the parameters._ ”

“Yes, Boss,” FRIDAY responded, sounding grumpy about it. The screens settled back to their normal blue. “Engaging the creativity routine.”

“That’s it,” Tony praised, smiling. “Take all the time you need. Don’t wait up, kiddo. I’ll be out for a while.”

Humming, he spun around, heading back to the workshop door. If he showered and left in twenty minutes, there would still be about an hour left in the gala. He could make his speech, mingle with the other donors, and flirt enough with Pepper that she might only be half-mad at him by the end of the night. Half-mad was better than full-mad.

Hm. If he dragged Steve with him, she might even drop down to quarter-mad. She had a soft spot for the captain a mile wide—and what charity gala didn’t benefit from the unexpected presence of a humble war hero?

Strategy set in mind, Tony lifted a hand to the door panel, the door itself sliding open without a sound. Then-

“Spider-Man 1, profile complete,” FRIDAY announced behind him smugly. “Spider-Man 2, profile complete-”

What? “No, stop stop stop.” By the time he got back to his computer, she was flickering a judgmental red. The holographic displays shuddered with her feelings on the matter. “Okay, okay, I know we took the training wheels off and I promised I’d hold on, but I didn’t. Bad dad. But you can’t just isolate the anomalies into different people because you can’t make sense of them.” He lifted a finger. “You need to make one profile. Only one.”

“I disagree,” FRIDAY fired back. “To do so, I would need to ignore 3,946 separate anomalies, including height, weight, gait, age, agility, strength, quote-un-quote Spidey sense-”

“Fine! Fine. Um. Resume.” Bewildered, Tony shook his head. He flung the suit over his chair carelessly, leaning over the table and typing in commands quickly. “When you’re done, rerun all the video we have on Spidey. Go back as long as you need. Look at YouTube if you need to—and do NOT get distracted by the cat videos again. Oh, and color code them for me, would you? Ignore the current color set. We’re isolating this one.” At least, until he figured out FRIDAY’s glitch.

Tony typed in several more commands, adding more parameters. Then he paused, just thinking, staring down at the holographic keys. Sometimes, he really missed the manual clacking. It helped him think.

“Training profiles complete,” FRIDAY said smugly. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed she set up the profiles around him in holographic banners, each a different color, like a rainbow cage.

Tony looked up. Then he kept looking. He pushed away from the desk, the banners moving with him. He turned slowly, eyes darting up and down each profile.

“Pepper’s going to kill me,” he breathed. Still, he couldn’t stop staring.

There were _seven_ of them. Different heights, weights, gaits, and ages, just like she said. Beyond the banners, FRIDAY opened up windows—different videos and different recordings she had referenced for each profile. Differently shaded Spider-Man were running across the screens—towards danger, out of danger, around it. Some were close enough for Tony to touch. Others were far away on rooftops, just watching.

Seven men. Seven vigilantes. Seven Spider-Men.

Only one talked his mouth off and only one used web shooters—Spidey #7. He was in half the videos—the primary Spider-Man. The limper from last night wasn’t Spidey #7. It was Spidey #3. FRIDAY had already cross-referenced him and found a match and a name, pinning the new profile to an older training profile. She found similar cross-references for almost everyone, in fact.

Every single one of them but Spidey #7.

“Boss?” FRIDAY prompted worriedly.

Tony shook his head slowly. He buried his face in his hands, massaging suddenly throbbing temples. It wasn’t FRIDAY’s fault that she’d tossed a bomb in his lap he had no hope of gracefully defusing.

“What the hell are you doing, Webs?”


	5. Chapter 5

Peter crossed his legs, bringing his knees up to his chest. He hugged them to his torso with one arm, shivering in the early winter air. His other arm was extended outward, phone screen facing him, a busy signal grumbling from the speaker. Peter watched it carefully, mouth flat and thin.

Peter wasn’t getting _anywhere_ with his investigation of the Oscorp murders—and the Defenders weren’t taking his calls. He couldn’t blame bad service for that last bit either. He ponied up for the best and took all the important calls on the rooftops with the best reception in town—like now, except on Wade’s building instead of his own.

Somewhere below him, Wade was cheerfully (and chaotically) whipping them up a dinner. Peter wished he could match Wade’s instant joy at seeing him, but his mood was low, dragging like his feet. After a few stilted exchanges, Peter had made an excuse that he needed a shower and crawled out of the window and onto the roof.

Peter sighed, his breath emerging as a plume of fog in front of him. He hugged himself tighter. Then, despite his mood, despite his disappointment, he pressed his face against his knees, feeling a reluctant smile threaten his mouth. _Wade_.

They’d been dating for six and half weeks already. That was two weeks longer than Peter’s record, and he was a little _scared_ about how well it was going. A self-defeatist at heart, Peter searched and searched for where their relationship was already unraveling. But he couldn’t find anything. Deadpool and Spider-Man were about as opposite as two heroes could get, but Peter and Wade themselves? They really weren’t.

He hadn’t even meant to ask to date in the first place either. He was just tired, frustrated by the Defenders, and stupidly missing Wade, even when the guy was right in front of him, and, then boom. He asked, half-expecting Wade to put him in his place, half-expecting Wade to pity him, and half-expecting their arrangement to end, dead in the water.

What he got instead was a giddy, giddy boyfriend on his hands, a rapidly deepening relationship, and a permanent invite to Wade’s home. It was almost too good to be true.

It also wasn’t nearly the disruption to his life that he anticipated it would be. Sure, he was dropping about three hours of patrol a week because of it, but it was practically winter, and everyone knew that crime rates dropped when the air got brisk and icy. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t use Wade’s apartment as a springing off point for his nightly activities either. Wade left the door unlocked, always, and he wasn’t always home. In fact, Wade was so frequently not at home that Peter could come and go as he pleased, even under a mask.

His absence was less and less of a blessing, Peter was finding. His smile faded.

But that was a Peter Parker problem.

This was a _Spider-Man_ problem. The Defenders weren’t taking his calls, and people were dead. The fact that Harry didn’t think there was a tie to Oscorp wasn’t the stress reliever Harry so clearly thought it was, weeks after seeing that photo. Jessica didn’t accuse people of things lightly. If she thought there was an Oscorp connection, then there was an Oscorp connection—whether Harry liked it or not.

Peter had to talk to the Defenders, which meant he had to confront them, face-to-face, on their own turf. And he really didn’t want to do that.

He’d already tried with Matt. Matt was usually the weak link of the bunch. Despite his sometimes severe attitude, he was kind, thoughtful, fair, and probably even genuinely Spider-Man’s friend. And yet even he was being increasingly evasive with Peter, and he usually only did that when someone had him by the balls and were threatening his loved ones. After that frustratingly sparse conversation, Peter did a quick swing by of Matt’s pressure points, but they all seemed to be doing fine. So something else was gluing Matt’s mouth shut, and Peter didn’t have a clue what it was.

So Matt was out. Jessica wasn’t a good plan B. Peter knew Jessica well enough by now that any random, sudden approach was best started with some sort of peace offering if you wanted to avoid a black eye. But he had no idea what would appeal to her now, especially now that Matt had gone silent. She sure as hell wasn’t picking up her phone. Danny wasn’t much better. Years of dealing with his destiny and his family’s business had turned him into a closed book by default. And Luke? Peter never knew where he stood with the guy. Sure, Peter’s most flattering newspaper article was hanging on the dude’s wall for all to see, but he also threw a car at Peter once.

Peter took very few things personally, but people throwing cars at him? Kind of his pet peeve.

Peter flinched when his phone lit up with a call. Barely glancing at the familiar combination of numbers, he tapped the screen and stuck it next to his ear. “Hiya, Ben!” he greeted cheerfully. “Decide to finally join the Spidey Clone Army? It might ruin the aesthetic we’re working with, but, aw, hell. We’ll make it work.”

“…Hello, Spider-Man,” the man on the other side greeted him slowly, deep voice bemused.

Peter cringed so bad, it was practically an out of body experience. That wasn’t Ben Grimm. He stared at his phone in betrayal and horror.

He saved no contacts on his burner—couldn’t risk it. Instead, he memorized all the numbers he needed to know, and it was his own damn bad luck that Ben Grimm and Steve Rogers shared 6 out of 10 numbers, and his own damn fault for not looking closer at the screen before picking up.

He’d been avoiding this conversation for _weeks_. Maybe he could try and avoid it a little longer?

“Uh, whoops?” Peter shot to his feet, darting to the end of the roof. He started making static noises with his mouth. “Uh, Cap, I can’t talk right now. I’m going through two buildings. You’re breaking up-”

“Spider-Man-” Steve protested.

Peter pinched his phone between two fingers and dangled it in the air, toying with the idea of dropping it down the side of the building. Then he hesitated. With his luck, Wade would probably find it. And running away from this conversation did not reflect the kind of person Peter wanted to be. No matter how tempting it was.

Bowing his head, Peter sighed, bringing the phone back to his ear.

“I know I screwed up, Cap,” Peter said plainly. “With the new bad guy—the green one near Hell’s Kitchen a few weeks ago?” He set his teeth in his lower lip fitfully, dropping to his usual crouch. “You don’t have to tell me. I _know_ I messed up. I’m the reason the bad guy got away.”

And the reason he was still terrorizing people. Peter didn’t own a TV, but who needed a TV when you had the internet in your back pocket? The green guy was never on the streets during Peter’s strictly allotted Spidey-time either, giving Peter almost no opportunity to make up for his mistake.

It was very much his fault.

“That’s… No. That’s not why I called.” Steve’s voice was quiet and surprised. He paused a moment, then tried again. “Look, Spider-Man, mistakes happen, even with the best intentions. I’m not going to hold that day against you. You were just trying to help.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped, tension easing from him in hitches. He set an anchoring hand against the edge of the roof, letting himself breathe a little bit. Steve’s forgiveness didn’t make anything better. It didn’t magically fix things or automatically drop that weird guy in jail. But it did loosen a bit of a vice around Peter’s chest that he wasn’t aware of until just then.

But Steve wasn’t done. Much later, Peter would think that this was another thing they had in common. Neither one of them knew when to stop a conversation before they stuck their foot straight in their mouths.

And so, Steve continued, saying, “But what I will hold against you is your continuing lack of communication with your teammates-”

Peter’s head shot up. “Not my teammates, not my team,” he interrupted pointedly, heatedly.

“If you ally yourself to us at any moment,” Steve countered quickly, “then you become part of my team. You become an Avenger. Whether you stay that way or not after a battle doesn’t matter. We’re happy to work with you, you know that. But I _cannot_ have teammates who refuse to communicate vital information to the rest of us. And yes, that does mean attending debriefs, listening to orders, and filling out reports-”

“I bet Deadpool doesn’t do reports!”

“You would lose that bet. Deadpool files his reports in triplicate.”

Peter made a face. That didn’t seem like Wade. Then again, Wade was very serious about his Avengers status. He imagined Deadpool, fully kitted out in costume and weaponry, perching in front of a laptop and tapping out a report one letter at a time.

But Steve was still lecturing. “-and if you don’t communicate, you’re not an ally. You’re a liability.”

Peter tuned back in at liability. “Some of us are double booked, Cap-” he protested.

“And some of us still manage to share information while juggling a work life, a social life, marriage, _and kids_. You’re not special.”

Irritated, Peter squirmed. Before occasionally allying with Avengers, Peter would have told you he liked all versions of Captain America—the soldier, the patriot, the rebel. Now that he’d worked with them a bit, Peter had finally found a version he didn’t like: the loose cannon who thought Spidey was a loose _tank_.

“Why are you fighting me on this so much? Do you have an actual reason or is it just on principle?” Steve asked. Peter didn’t say anything, jaw tensing. Steve sighed. “A lot of people look up to you, you know. A lot of people like you. Respect you. And a lot of people are _worried_ about you. Don’t make bad decisions you can’t come back from over something as stupid as pride.”

Stunned, Peter leaned back. The cold barely touched him now. He was numb, but in a different way.

“Bad decisions?” Like the way Peter operated was out of a whim, out of impulse instead of the very tightly-scheduled strategy it was? “Pride?” Like Peter didn’t agonize on a daily basis over how to maintain both of his lives without it leading to tragedy on either side? “Things I can’t come back from?” Like Peter didn’t watch with the rest of the world as the Avengers self-immolated and turned on each other?

Peter’s ears were heating up, ringing. He chuckled roughly, shaking his head. “So sorry, Cap. You’re just gonna have to deal with my poor decision making,” he spat venomously. The twisting feeling in his gut turned into something ugly, with claws. “After all, not all of us can have our _bad decisions_ conveniently hand-waved away by the federal government. Some of us just have to lie down on the beds we make and _live with it_.”

Peter sucked in a deep breath. Then he let it out, the warm air scuttling away from him in a plume of fog. Then he ended the call. He vibrated in place for a moment before flinging himself on his back. He stared up at the black, starless sky as he trembled in anger.

But Steve wasn’t wrong, was he?

Mouthing off to Captain America. Letting the green guy get away. The Spider. Dropping his academics too early. _Pride goeth before fall_. Peter Parkley. Lying to Wade. The Spidey Clones.

Peter was chock full of bad decisions. Cap didn’t know the half of it.

 

-

 

Humming merrily, Wade popped his hip against the stove, shutting it closed after the pan of garlic rolls. He hoped Petey liked bread. He probably did. Wade had yet to see the man meet a plate of food he didn’t like.

Hmm. Petey. Wade grinned.

He rolled through life with a wild, fantastical mindset where anything that could happen will happen, and he might as well enjoy it. He was literally death defying, laughing in the face of all that is right or logical. _Wait, was this thing actually impossible?_ Physics, take a back seat—you’re in Wade’s world now.  

But when it came to himself and his own happiness, Wade was nothing but a realist. Bad guys don’t get happy endings.

He swore up and down weeks ago that this thing with Peter was going to blow up in his face. The trigger for it? No longer restricting things to Petey’s office space. Wade said yes to dating Peter because that was the _dream_. That was what he wanted—domestic sweetness and tender feelings.

He didn’t say yes because he thought it would _work_.

And it couldn’t! No way, José. Wade knew what target demographic he appealed to—straight laced people who wanted something a little wild and a little weird in the bedroom. Peter was the very definition of straight laced: a 9-5 corporate employee who ironed his slacks, wore ties everyday to work, and planned his days out to the second on his little smart phone. No. The second Wade stopped being Peter’s dirty little secret at work, Wade was no longer a fantasy. No longer a thrill or a danger. He was just a clingy weirdo with a skin condition, a wonky mind, and a sick weapons collection. Wade had given it a day. Two, tops.

But here they were, six weeks later. It was almost winter, and he was wrong. So very fucking wrong. Wade was thrilled. He’d learned so much about Peter in the last few weeks too, things he would have never guessed had their arrangement stayed the same.

Things, like the fact that Peter Parker was a beautiful goddamn nerd, and not the geeky kind you shoved in a locker in high school. If Peter wasn’t so ensconced in the corporate side of Oscorp, he’d probably end up developing the artificial intelligence that would end life as they knew it—Tony Stark and Reed Richards weren’t the only people with a corner on that market.

Or things like the fact that Peter seemed immune to the usual relationship deal breakers. He didn’t care about seeing Wade’s skin. He didn’t freak out over Wade’s mutation nor did he ask questions about Wade’s whereabouts or hours. He ignored Wade’s guns and weaponry. He ate as much as Wade did—more, actually, and in grosser combinations. And he seemed relatively resigned to blood stains, though he did insist they handle them while still wet. Weird things like that.

Or how about the fact that Peter wasn’t keeping Wade as his dirty little secret? No. They went out _all the time_. They went on dates. They saw movies together. Peter dragged Wade to Queens so Wade could see all of Peter’s old haunts. Wade dragged Peter to Chicago to meet Blind Al. They went to stores together and walked around New York and tried so many different taco places. Wade even dragged Peter with him once on patrol. Peter spent the whole time cussing up a storm, kneeling in three inches of rain water to disarm a bomb in someone’s trunk while Wade convinced the driver to give up his supplier. That was a wild date night for sure.

Or, hey, did you know Peter was a sad sack who had exactly two pairs of shoes? Wade wouldn’t have guessed it, not with his job. But there Peter was, sad owner of only a pair of work shoes and a pair of Converse so old and tattered, they were literally held together by duct tape. When Wade tried to talk him into burning the monstrosities, Peter shared his budgets with Wade. While mildly aroused by the color-coded Excel workbook, Wade was also fully disturbed about how much of Peter’s food budget was dependent on taking full advantage of the free food at work.

This led to the realization that Peter spent most of his corporate blood money on making sure May Parker kicked the shit out of her cancer. Which, of course, led to the realization that followed most things Wade learned about Peter, which was that Wade wanted to surround Peter in bubble wrap because the little fucker was too precious for this world. That, or marry him. Or both.

Wade loved every minute and every second of getting to know Peter better. The only downside of it all was how little he still saw Peter. Peter had a hard enough time renegotiating his horrific work schedule—baby boy had a full dance card. Unless Wade made his usual rounds around Oscorp, they really only saw each other on weekends. It wasn’t always a full weekend for them either. Even Wade had shit to do. Peter sometimes left on Saturday or didn’t come until Sunday. Wade would sleep alone or Peter would. But Wade would always see Peter at least once a weekend… and it wasn’t nearly enough.

Wade wanted more, damnit. He was halfway to asking Peter to move in. Wade wasn’t having a whole lot of success planting the seed, though. Wade even tried to impose a “no work clothes” rules the third weekend in a sly attempt to get Peter to start bringing some stuff over. It didn’t work. Peter just stripped then and there, unconcerned about his nakedness in the way that only beautiful people could be and fished out clothes from Wade’s closet instead.

Wade, dumbstruck, didn’t challenge Peter in his smug and cozy loophole. Still didn’t, now that Petey had made it a habit. It was a delightful turn of events—really, pat on the back, past!Wade.

It drove him _crazy_. Wade wasn’t that much bigger than Petey—not really—but he was taller and broader in all the ways it counted. His clothes made Peter look small and sweet, like something Wade needed to cuddle and protect and _bone really hard_. Oh, please. Like you weren’t expecting the sex to increase too. It did, okay? The sex was great. The sex was awesome.

But it was the little domestic shit that killed Wade every time. Like Peter’s coffee cup tipped upside down on the kitchen counter every night. Bare feet barely making a sound on Wade’s wood floors. The smell of familiar aftershave that lingered long after its wearer had left. A separate toothbrush in his bathroom, a rich blue to his blood red. Fingers sliding across Wade’s shoulders as their owner passed. Little things. The kinds of things you ignored in your hookup but started to memorize when your boyfriend or girlfriend was on the other end.

And where oh where was the second shoe, you ask? Ha ha, right? Yeah.

Wade was waiting for it too. Bad guys don’t get happy endings.

Interrupting himself mid-hum, Wade tipped his head to the side, eyeing a wave of heated air as his bathroom door opened. Peter followed it out, pink faced and frowning, the exact opposite of relaxed after taking the longest shower known to man. He was rubbing his hair with a towel still, his eyebrows knitted together tightly.

Wade put the spaghetti sauce on low, practically skipping over to his grumpy love. Peter eyed him warily but let him take over the hair drying, bowing his head as Wade briskly massaged his head through the towel. Cold air and wet hair did not mix—that was one thing Wade was almost grateful he didn’t have to deal with anymore. Almost.

Once Wade was done, he rolled up the towel and curled it, playfully, around the back of Peter’s neck. When Peter kept looking down, trapped in his thoughts, Wade freed a hand and tipped his chin up, grinning. Tender feelings ripped out of him—battered and bleeding, raw and true.

Pretty, pretty boy. Wade crowded Peter, delighting in his flushed skin and heated body. He couldn’t help the fact that showers triggered such horny thoughts, not when Peter looked like he’d just cleaned up after round one and was ready to be wrecked by round two. 

“You wanna…?” Wade started leadingly. Then he paused. Something wasn’t right. Peter wasn’t making eye contact. There was tension in his body that shouldn’t have been there.

But his hands were creeping towards the bottom of his own shirt. “Sure,” he said flatly. “Just add it to the large pile of bad decisions I’ve already made.”

Wade caught his wrists. He stared at the side of Peter’s face for a moment. Then he pressed a masked kiss to Peter’s temple and backed away. “Nope!” he chirped, walking back to the kitchen and his bubbling sauce pot. “Nevermind.”

This surprised Peter. “What?”

Yeah. Probably the first time Wade ever said no to sex, wasn’t it? “You’re upset, sweetheart,” Wade said, because it was obvious. Obvious in the way Peter held his shoulders still, in the way his eyes looked anywhere but Wade. “I can ignore you, give you space, whatever you’d like. Just let me know.”

“Maybe I want some fucking empathy,” Peter snapped.

Wade looked back at him in surprise. “Okay,” he said slowly. That didn’t really sound like Peter at all, but there he was, shoulders up to his ears, fists clenched, eyes glittering- “Come, cry on my shoulder.”

Wade instantly wished he wasn’t such an antagonizing fuck. Peter’s face twisted, and Wade wondered if this was going to be the first night one of them left early not out of necessity but out of anger instead. But then Peter approached anyway, bristling. Wade wordlessly stretched out an arm, which Peter tucked into, flattening out against Wade’s side. He must have wanted comfort more than he wanted a fight. Thank god. Wade was an excellent cuddler—suit aside, that is. 

It took Peter a solid six minutes to fully relax. By the seventh minute, he had curled his hands around Wade’s torso and was watching him stir in odd fascination. Could you overstir spaghetti sauce? Probably not, so Wade was going to continue. As far as Peter was concerned, Wade was a fivestar gourmet chef. Peter’s eating habits were basically that of an oversized teenage boy. The only thing he knew how to cook ramen, grilled cheese sandwich, and frozen burritos.

Peter was mesmerized every time Wade pulled out a Hello Kitty apron. It was an ego boost _for sure_.

“Wanna tell Daddy Deadpool which of your bad decisions is bothering you today?” Please, let it not be him.

Peter’s answer came muffled somewhere by Wade’s jaw. “I refuse to call you Daddy.”

Wade nuzzled his cheek. “I’ve got nothing but time to convince you otherwise, sweetness.”

“Ass.”

Wade squeezed in retaliation. Not that it was much of a punishment. Peter _liked_ to be squeezed. It used to scare Wade. Peter was hardly a skinny, tiny guy, but Wade was still bigger and stronger than him. By a lot. He had over forty pounds of muscle on him, 100% more military training, and who knew how much Francis-honed what-the-fuck-ness. Yet, every time Wade squeezed him, Peter flattened like a cat and went heavy-lidded, like he was now.

Wade’s mouth went dry. He stopped stirring as he wondered if Peter would consider rough housing with him. Just a little bit. Just for fun. He wanted to wrestle Peter, see if Peter would let him pin him to the floor. See if Peter would pin _Wade_ to the floor. The thought devolved into a fantasy of Wade being pressed face down, arm forced behind his back by Peter, Peter’s weight against his back, and his mouth against his ear, saying-

“What’s burning?” Peter asked curiously.

Wade swore, letting go of Peter and wrenching open the stove. The garlic knots were lightly charred. “Shit.”

While Wade made whining, distressed noises at the sight of his precious bread, Peter backed off slightly, leaning against the opposite counter.

“What do you feel about letting people fight your battles?” he asked somewhere behind Wade.

“Metaphorically or physically?” Wade poked at the bread sadly. “I need some context.”

There was a pause. Then Peter sighed. “Nevermind.”

Standing, Wade shot a hand out behind him without looking, snagging Peter’s retreating elbow. Peter made an annoyed noise but let Wade reel him back into his arms. He tucked Peter’s head under his chin, bumping the stove closed with his knee.

“I will bite you.”

“Promise?” Wade chuckled. “Seriously, though… it should come to the surprise of no one that I like a good fight. A bad fight too. Any kind of fight, really. It doesn’t take much to entertain me.” He stroked his free hand down Peter’s back, and he did it again when Peter shivered.

Peter’s skin under his shirt was icy cold, like he’d been outside instead of in a warm and toasty shower. Wade frowned at that, but continued onward, saying, “But, honey… when you’re fighting, there has to be a point at which you have to say no. A point where you can say no. A point where you are _allowed to_. Being on guard 24/7, not trusting anyone to defend you… Trust me, I’ve lived that life. And that life’s rough, sweetheart.”

Peter slumped lower and lower the longer Wade talked. “It’s my responsibility,” he said quietly in a voice Wade had never heard from him before. Wade hugged him tighter.

Peter had been distracted by something at work for weeks, and now it was following him home. Wade was dying to know what it was, but he was trying to respect Peter’s boundaries. Whatever it was, it made Wade want to rip Webs a new one for not at least _seeing_ the strain Peter was under. Oscorp was like a shark tank with someone’s blood always in the water. Kudos to Spider-Man for keeping his head above water all this time, but not if he was using Peter as a stepping stone to do it.

“Sure,” Wade said after a beat. “But have you ever stopped to think it might be someone else’s responsibility too? That it might be okay if they take the wheel when you can’t?” His silence was telling. Wade nuzzled the top of his head. “My little control freak.”

Peter thumped his arm gently. “Not much better than baby boy,” he grumbled.

Wade giggled, releasing his elbow to wrap both arms around Peter. He couldn’t help but catalogue what he sensed: cold skin shoulders down, warm hair from the shower, the sharp scent of shampoo that, while strong, wasn’t quite strong enough to mask the scent of something dark and tar-like and-

“I like you, you know that?”

Wade froze. Then he unfroze, laughing shakily. “Oh, honey bunches,” Wade chided him gently, pulling back to look at him a little. “Don’t tell me things like that.” His heart was racing.

Peter had to be able to feel it. And Peter clearly could because he was looking up at Wade with a small smile. Warm brown eyes, curving pale lips... Oh, he’d been down this road before. The road was beautiful, covered with shards of broken glass, and the only way through it was to crawl. And he _would_ crawl.

Wade ducked his head. “Petey, I-”

A hand covered his mouth. “Ssh, don’t say anything.” Peter’s eyes were dancing in amusement. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Wade sagged in relief, knocking his forehead against Peter’s shoulder. He knew Wade too well and was letting him off the hook.

There was one thing Wade wasn’t ready to give up. But it was right there, wasn’t it? Packaged, wrapped up, and complete with a bow. Ready and waiting to go. It was just three words. Not hard to say.

But this was more than giving him Wade’s space or Wade’s affection or Wade’s body. Giving up those three words would give him Wade’s entire world. Functional immortality didn’t mean Peter couldn’t destroy him. After all, losing Vanessa almost did.

 

-

 

Any PI worth their salt would tell you that body language was key when tracking a target. You could read damn near everything about a person based on their posture, body language, and eye contact. The clench of their shoulders, the sweep of their eyes up and down the street, the absent groping of pocketed items of grave importance…

Jessica could read a guilty target from 100 feet away in ten seconds or less. She could read a drug deal in progress in less than five, but that generally wasn’t her area. Not that she was 100% sure what _her area_ was anymore. She used to pay her rent with the bitter bills of betrayed spouses. Now, she ran down kidnappers and exposed murderers and beat up random freaks with powers who decided to make the world a little more difficult for everyone else.

She wasn’t sure what category this fell under. She just sipped her coffee, mouth twisting at the bitterness. Half of her attention was on her phone. The other half was across the street. Because sitting outside the café was none other than Harry Osborn on a date.

Jessica had been watching the guy for a week, and the longer that week dragged on, the more annoyed—and confused—she became. She had expected a confrontation by now. Spider-Man had a sixth sense for photographers, stalkers, snipers watching through their scopes, and even lingering, appreciative glances by strangers. He never confirmed it, but Jessica suspected Spidey had super senses too. All in all, his particular brand of weird made him absolutely fucking impossible to sneak up on, and the attempt made him snippy and peeved with anyone who tried.

And yet, her monitoring hadn’t provoked a single peep from her super sorta-pal. Not yet, anyway. Today might be the day, though, because today Harry Osborn was oddly tense and very quiet. This was fairly unusual for him. During her previous surveillance, Harry and his date were like two honeymooners up in each other’s business. It was kind of cute, in a way. Jessica could almost forgive his lack of personal awareness, especially since it was clear he was thinking with anything but the pink matter between his ears. 

But today, the love birds sat apart. Their body language was much different—hers, increasingly so, as if reacting to the way Harry looked at his phone or dropped one-worded answers. Jessica wasn’t close enough to hear, but she knew enough about reading lips to understand most of them. _Yes. No. Fine. Okay. Probably._ But she didn’t know enough about lipreading to figure out what Harry’s date said that made Harry turn an alarming angry red. It happened in a blink of an eye.

Abandoning her cover, Jessica pulled out her camera as Harry started yelling at the blond woman. Admirably, the girl’s face remained blank. Her eyes narrowed, clear blue and sharp in Jessica’s viewfinder. She said something else and stood, swinging her bag to her with a finality perfected by angered women everywhere. Standing also, Harry grabbed her arm, a grip she twisted out of immediately.

Then in a move no one could have predicted, the woman was abruptly shoved back into a pole.

Jessica hit the ground running, her camera clattering to the floor at her feet. Narrowly missing a taxi, she hurled herself between her angry target and his stunned date, skidding to a stop mere feet away from him.

Harry looked bad. He seethed at her with pinprick pupils, and his eyes were deadened and gone, his cheeks reddening. His teeth were bared in an animalistic, hissing snarl and, as he advanced, Jessica swallowed, squaring up slightly as she came to grips with the thought that she was really going to get in a fist fight with an unmasked Spidey in broad daylight with hundreds of people idly watching-

Then a shaky voice emerged behind her. “Harry?”

Harry blinked, and, before her eyes, he transformed into an entirely different person—eyes warmer, skin paler, mouth softer. Life and vitality seeped into his gaze, and, quick on its heels, realization and despair. Harry looked past her, then at his own hands. Then past her again. Then, eyes filling up with tears, he backed away—first in mere steps. Then a full run.

Then he was gone.

Jessica let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. Then she glared at everyone who had just watched this happen. New York apathy at its finest. A few people looked away guiltily.

Scoffing, Jessica turned around to check on Harry’s date. The woman was on the ground still, stunned.

Jessica crouched next to her. “Police or hospital?” she asked briskly.

“I’m fine,” the woman said instead. She started to stand but sat back down almost immediately, knees visibly shaking.

“That man pushed you. You hit a pole.” Jessica automatically reached out to the woman’s cheek. It was pink and already starting to swell where she’d hit it.

“I was there,” the woman said grumpily, pulling her face away.

Jessica withdrew her hands. “You can press assault charges,” she said quickly, business-like. In the back of her mind, her thoughts churned, racing after each other fitfully.

Harry’s date laughed bitterly. “I’m not going to do that. That wasn’t- That wasn’t like him at all. You don’t-” A single tear dashed down her face. She rubbed it away angrily.

Jessica agreed, somewhat. What she had seen was not a man who was in control of himself. She paused. Then she tried again. “What’s your name?”

“Gwen.”

“Hi Gwen. My name is Jessica.” Gwen sucked in a huge breath, smiling automatically. Jessica could see her pulling herself together, reconstructing a front that matched her words— _I’m fine._ She hated doing it, but Jessica needed to yank her back to the situation at hand. “Who is he, your boyfriend?”

Gwen’s expression froze. “Yeah,” she said sadly.

Slowly, telegraphing her moves, Jessica covered Gwen’s hands with hers. Then she flipped them, forcing Gwen to face the reality of her fall—the shredded skin, the thick blood, the imbedded gravel. Gwen paled. Then she winced in pain, her fingers twitching, like this was the first time she’d felt the injury.

Jessica watched her carefully. “You need to make a decision here. Either one, I’ll help you. Police or hospital?”

Gwen’s fingers spasmed in Jessica’s hold. Then her face crumpled. “Hospital.”

Jessica helped her to her feet. Once she was reasonably sure Gwen was able to stand on her own, she jogged over to the other side of the street and retrieved her camera. Then she jogged back, her attention focused on Gwen and getting her treated.

It wasn’t exactly a deviation from her plans for the day. Any PI worth their salt would tell you that body language was just the tip of the iceberg.

You learned just as much about a target by what they left behind.

 

-

 

It was night already, almost pitch black even though it was only 8pm. It was cold too, but Peter was trying to ignore that. Mind over matter, and all that jazz.

Peter scuttled quickly across the wall. “ _Bad boys, bad boys_ ,” he sang under his breath. “ _Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?_ ”

If anyone looked up, all they would see was a dark streak moving across similarly colored bricks. No iconic red and blue tonight. No, tonight was for Stealthy Spidey. Or Spidey cosplaying as a bank robber. Man, this mask itched.

Peter’s head jerked to the side. Ah, just the window he was looking for! Humming some more, Peter stuck to the wall with his knees, using both hands to quietly slide the glass open. Once it was open just enough, Peter planted both hands on either side of the window and silently flipped through.

He landed in a crouch in an empty office. It was a small space, little more than a computer, a desk, a shelf, two inwardly facing windows, and a closed door. Nearly every surface was covered with papers in an orderly sort of chaos. Some were so old, they were yellowing around the edges. This was the office of a man who hadn’t had reason to move in quite some time.

Peter ducked lower when he saw two silhouettes pass by through the blinds. He slid behind the desk, lingering in a low crouch he was ready to spring from at a moment’s notice.

“-not sure why the security cameras are down, though,” said one of the silhouettes, a woman.

Her companion, an older man, chuckled roughly. “We haven’t had our IT shit updated since 1994. Maybe this’ll finally be their wakeup call.”

“Doubt it,” the woman said. They passed by, seemingly unaware of the break-in in the next room.

Peter stayed quiet, holding his breath. Then he held his breath some more. When the coast seemed clear, he finally sighed, relaxing. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Although a close call, it was not as close as he would have liked as a tax-paying citizen.

“It should _not_ be this easy to break into a police precinct,” he muttered to himself. Shaking himself out of his gloomy thoughts about how few pokes it took to disable their entire security system from his phone, he sidled up to the desk instead, firing up the computer. While the ancient thing chugged and sputtered, Peter spied a nameplate and turned it around to face him.

_Robert Martine, Senior Detective._ Nodding to himself, Peter put it back. He’d mapped out the precinct correctly after all. Not that he’d expected otherwise. Peter would have liked to say that this was the first time he’d ever illegally broken into a police station and hacked a detective’s computer, but... he was trying to be more honest these days. To himself, at the very least.

The fact of the matter was that the police had oodles of information about crimes and criminals, and they often just tended to… sit on it. Let it breathe, mature. Ferment. _Escalate._

Sure, Peter was aware that the whole “due process” thing meant cops needed more than a hunch and a tingly Spidey-sense to act on a lead, but Spider-Man was not bound to such laws. And the ever-evolving criminal justice system in New York meant that any time a vigilante turned in a criminal, cops had to prioritize thoroughly investigating and identifying why _that_ particular criminal was targeted. As a bonus, anything they found in that investigation could be used to tack charges onto a criminal who might have otherwise been untouchable without a warrant.

So… Peter was doing them a favor, really. Which kind of canceled out the bad of him hacking into their databases, right?

…Yeah, okay. Maybe not. That was a pretty flimsy justification to him too.

His phone buzzed at his hip. Peter absently tapped his earpiece. “City morgue, speaking. You kill ‘em, we chill ‘em.”

“Oh, stop it,” the person on the other side said, giggling.

Peter lit up. He grinned. “Aunt May! How the heck are you? I feel like I haven’t talked to you for a full—what is it? Three days? How dare you deprive me, ma’am. I am hurt.”

“Hush, you. How have you been?”

Peter and May chit chatted quietly while Peter got the PC up and going. May bought the lie that Peter was on the subway, trying not to wake up a passenger next to him, which, in his opinion, said a lot about how noisy Detective Martine’s computer fans were. (Windows XP? Oh, honey. _No._ )

Somehow, May and Peter got to the topic of dating. When Peter didn’t immediately deflect as he normally did, May jumped on it like a bloodhound on a scent. There was no deterring her. So, shyly, as he broke a good handful of local, state, and federal laws, Peter started sharing a little bit more about Wade. May was ecstatic. She wanted to know everything. Peter had to shush her a few times, reminding her about the fictitious sleeping passenger.

“Is he a good boy?”

“He’s an _okay_ boy,” Peter said, trying to sound more annoyed than he felt. The smile ruined it. “He has a past, and he’s not afraid to be annoying.”

He finally got the computer running enough to try booting up the database. It was as old school as he remembered it from the last time he’d had to break in. If he recalled correctly, all precincts had their people on a password cycle of 60 days, and Martine didn’t seem like a real tech savvy guy. Peter groped around the table, shuffling things around.

Ah! There it was. Classic post-it note under the keyboard. No one _ever_ checked there. Peter quickly typed in Martine’s username and password, and then he was in.

“That doesn’t sound good,” May said slowly, musing.

Peter shrugged a shoulder, leaning over to look out the windows again. Martine was supposed to be in Brooklyn right now, following up on some leads, but Peter was still careful, worried about Martine’s coworkers. There was noise out there in the cubicles and the other offices, but none close by. He shifted back to the computer. “Wade’s just… hard to describe.”

“Is he good to you?”

“The best.” Peter grinned briefly. “You know, I think he likes me more than you do.”

“What? Impossible!” May teased. Then she sighed. “Gosh, it’s so odd to hear you gush about someone. It’s… nice.”

Peter ducked his head, embarrassed. “Am not.”

“Are too. Oh, did you know the neighbor’s daughter is getting married? The cute one you made eyes at all throughout elementary school? Oh, damn, what was her name…”

Peter’s smile froze, then faded. May’s voice, still chatting about the neighbor girl, drifted away in his ear.

He’d found the woman in Harry’s picture. Her name was Dana Smith. She was twenty-nine and a notorious protestor for several environmental groups. She had quite the record, many of them related to trespassing and resisting arrest. She’d come back home to New York fifteen months ago for her brother’s funeral. Her brother had been a low-level Oscorp researcher, and he’d been killed almost the exact same way as Dana herself. 

And unlike the photo of her corpse, her mugshot made her look an awful lot like Peter’s new coworker Linda, the newbie with a bad attitude and a worse image inducer.

Disturbed, Peter continued on. Martine dutifully uploaded his case and interview notes to the database on a weekly basis. He was investigating a gang connection, which was going nowhere. But he had also tied a fifth, sixth, and seventh murder to the four cases Jessica knew about, one of which was over eleven years old. Peter let out a low breath before taking out a piece of paper and writing down all the names.

Dana Smith. Terry Smith. Samantha Takahashi. Laura Santiago. Omar Williams. Richard Lee. All of them had the same murder profile, and all of them had been dropped in the Hudson River. And all of them, whether Harry liked it or not, either had a firm or tenuous connection to Oscorp.

God. So many people.

There was a questioning note in his ears. Peter shook his head. “S-sorry,” he said, swallowing harshly. “I missed that last thing. What did you say?”

“I said I’m happy you’re able to share your life with someone,” May said simply. “That you’re not spending every night alone in that shoebox apartment of yours. That you have someone with you, taking care of you. I just…” May sighed again. “You’re always taking care of everyone else, Peter. I just really want you to be able to focus on… you. On what you want. On what you need. You know?”

Peter stilled, suddenly very aware of himself and what he was doing. The danger. The risk. No. No, Peter didn’t know. He wasn’t exactly the kind of person who thought about those kinds of things. Focusing on himself! Ha.

But what if he did focus on himself for a bit? What if he was a little more selfish? Who would be the one who called him out on it? The Defenders were stonewalling him. The Avengers would be too, soon, out of respect for Cap. If Cap shared the nasty end of their phone call, that is. But the Spidey Clone Army was still going strong. Crime rates were down too. His usual band of weirdo villains were either under successful treatments or behind bars. Lack of alien nonsense meant the Four and the Avengers were more present than they normally were. Plus, Peter still had two huge favors from the X-Men he could call in.

What if he _did_ focus on himself? What he needed? What he wanted? It seemed like the universe was trying to tell him that this time, of all times, might be the time to do it. That this was his opportunity to hang up the suit for a bit. Maybe he could actually do overtime or, god forbid, actually date and hang out with Wade during the weekdays too. Maybe he could even drop his 7:00pm-1:00am patrols! Or some of them, at least. Peter wouldn’t go crazy or anything. He still had a job to do.

What would that be like, getting a full night’s rest and not worrying about the rest of the city?

Peter mentally slapped himself. No, first he had to solve the murders. _Then_ he could consider a Spidey break. For May’s sake.

By the time May spoke again, Peter had cleaned up all evidence of his presence and slid back out the window, shivering in the night air. In hindsight, he would be glad he had enough time to get to the opposite rooftop, where he’d stored his bag. He was gently starting to wind down the conversation. He had yet to perfect modulating his voice while web swinging—she would be alarmed. She had already asked him if he was okay when he jumped up the side of the building, and he’d been trying really hard not to make a sound.

“Raising you, Peter… It’s been an absolute delight. I don’t know why you ever thought you were a burden. I wish you wouldn’t.”

Peter froze in place over his bag. “Why are you saying this?” His fingers clutched the strap.

May hesitated. “I think you know why, honey.”

The dread that had built up slowly in Martine’s office suddenly peaked. Peter’s vision started to swim. He slowly dropped to his hip, feet sliding over the top of the roof as he resituated himself into a seated position. His head was throbbing, thudding angrily at the pace of his heart beat, which raced madly. The cold nipped at him with sharp teeth. He yanked the cheap black ski mask off his face, his breath bursting out in front of him in a plume of fog. _No_ , he thought.

No no no no no.

“I’m not sure I can take the chemo again. B-but I will, honey. I’ll do whatever the doc says, I-” May laughed once, the noise wet. “Can you just- Can you just imagine Ben trying to live without me? Gosh. I bet that man thinks the tea kettle turns on by itself in the morning.” She wanted him to laugh with her, Peter could tell. His mouth pulled into a practiced smile—useless. But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t have the air in his lungs. “Besides, the world isn’t always going to have cancer, right? Your Oscorp is on the case. You’re going to see the end of cancer in your lifetime, and I’m _so_ happy to know you’re going to be a part of that.”

His chest unclenched suddenly, and Peter had words again. “I have an in with the VP. Maybe we could bump you up in the trials.”

May snorted, laughing at his very serious proposition. “Maybe,” she said fondly. Then she changed the subject. “Could you come home sometime this month? I know you’re busy, but… I’d like to see you. Maybe bring your Wade?”

There were a thousand things ripping and tearing through his head. He said none of them.

“Sure,” Peter said tenderly. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Peter. Bye.”

The phone dropped from his nerveless fingers. Then Peter buried his face in his knees and wept.


	6. Chapter 6

Jessica woke up to a headache and the sound of sizzling eggs. At first, these things didn’t register as odd. When they finally did, she clenched up tight, misplaced alarm ringing through her head. Then she remembered the night before and groaned with feeling, relaxing and rolling slowly out of bed. She landed on her knee and left foot this time instead of her face. Grimacing, she stood and pulled on her least stinky pair of jeans, one leg at a time.

It took her a full ten minutes to make her way out of her room, stiff and walking like a zombie. But by then, there was a plate of toast and eggs for her as well as a steaming cup of coffee. Her wobbly kitchen table hadn’t seen such a spread in at least a year. Nor had it ever seen a guest for breakfast.

But today it would, in the form of one very put together Oscorp scientist. The same scientist somehow looked more rested and at ease than the woman whose apartment she had crashed for the night.

“You don’t have much in your fridge,” Gwen Stacy commented. Even her posture was perfect. Goddamnit. Then again, Harry’s girlfriend struck Jessica as the kind of person who greeted sunrise in a complicated yoga position, utterly at peace with the universe. She certainly wasn’t someone who polished off the end of a shit day by also polishing off the last of her whiskey. Hangovers sucked.

It was already 10 AM. Gwen had a cup of tea in her left hand and her attention was down, focused on whatever she was writing in a small notebook. Jessica took a vengeful sip of the offered coffee, eyeing the younger woman critically. The growing puffiness of her face was artfully hidden by a light application of makeup. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell she was already starting to purple. But Jessica could.

Last night, Gwen talked her down from a hospital to a clinic. They’d waited for two hours for a distracted doctor to tell them that Gwen had no concussion and only minor bruising. Her biggest worry was getting an infection in her cut-up hands, but, given the clean wrappings of the morning, Jessica judged that Gwen was on top of her own healing process.

Like a well-adjusted adult or whatever. “That tea’s been here since before I moved in,” Jessica commented meanly.

Gwen made a face and looked inside of her own mug. Then she shrugged, downing the rest pointedly.

Jessica sobered. “Wanna talk about it?” _Please say no_ , she thought even as she took a seat.

Gwen cocked her head slightly, watching her, but said nothing. She had been chattier the night before, swinging wildly between mile a minute rants and tears. But where she had been wrecked and emotional before, she was a different person today. Measured. Determined. And almost completely neutral.

Almost, anyway. “What’s there to talk about?” Gwen said finally.

Jessica nodded twice, dipping her head briefly in regret. Then, in a flash, she snatched Gwen’s notebook out from under her, leaning out of reach as Gwen gasped and tried to grab it back. Jessica scanned quickly over Gwen’s neat handwriting—pretests and posttests, introduction of a variable, behavioral anomalies, a proposed timeline…

Suspicions confirmed, Jessica let her take it back. “So we’re going into denial mode.”

“No, we’re going into empirical mode,” Gwen snapped back. Standing, she shoved her notebook into her purse. Jessica watched her through hooded eyes, aware this was where most people got up and left.

But Gwen stayed, hands flat against the table. “Come on, Jessica,” she pleaded. “If you had someone close to you in your life that suddenly became his exact opposite, wouldn’t you want to figure out what went wrong?”

Jessica didn’t say anything for a long moment. She didn’t want to encourage her. Doppelgangers, ninjas, imposters, and brainwashing psychopaths made up Jessica’s resume. But just because Jessica’s life was weird and defied normal expectations didn’t mean Occam’s razor didn’t apply here.

Jessica chewed on her lip. Fitfully pulling at her own fingers, she leaned forward and said very quietly, “It’s hard for people in an abusive relationship to recognize-”

A hand reached out, cupping Jessica’s wrist, stilling her. “I so appreciate what you’re trying to do here,” Gwen interrupted. Her eyes were bright and earnest, a clear wide blue. “Really, I do. But I’m telling you, there’s something more here.”

After a beat, Gwen pulled away, retreating at whatever she saw on Jessica’s face. Trish always said she was too easy to read. An open book that lacked a pleasant story.

“On an unrelated note,” Gwen asked, “know anything about whistleblowing?”

Not for the first time that morning, alarm bells rang in Jessica’s head. “Other than not to do it to companies with deep pockets and loose morals? No.”

Gwen ducked her head briefly, smiling. “Right.”

“You know, the last four people who tried to expose Oscorp ended up dead.”

Gwen blinked at her. “Who says it’s Oscorp?”

Jessica didn’t buy it. She gestured at Gwen’s hands. “You might think this came out of nowhere, but that right there sounds a hell of a lot like motive to me.”

Gwen’s expression hardened. “He doesn’t know what I know.”

“As far as _you_ know,” Jessica countered, scowling back at her.

Gwen’s fingers curled slightly, tucking into her palms. Then she was straightening, professional neutrality settling over her features. “What do I owe you?”

Jessica stared at her for a long moment before looking away. “Nothing.” Her stomach churned. “But if you want my advice? Submit your resignation and walk away. Anything else isn’t worth it.”

Gwen smiled thinly. “Thanks for letting me sleep here last night.”

It was a dismissal wrapped up in kindness. Then Gwen was gone, leaving Jessica alone in her apartment.

After a beat, Jessica covered her mouth. “Fuck.” A fifth person with dirt on Oscorp. Any other situation, any other company, Jessica would be thrilled. She loved corroboration, multiple threads of facts and evidence that made up the noose around a bad guy’s neck. But now she felt like there was a hole ripped out of her. Like she was standing there, uselessly, watching another innocent fall off a cliff.

Jessica hadn’t been the one to link the Oscorp murders. Terry Smith reached out to her almost a year ago, fueled by fear and a sharp paranoia that had him disguising everything from his email address to his voice over the phone.

Sensing a juicy case, she built up a rapport with him. Established trust. Made some promises that, in hindsight, she shouldn’t have made. He believed in her and laid his cards bare. He was just about to release himself to her care so she could get him into hiding. He needed only another day, he said. Then he’d have all the information he needed. He was supposed to meet her at a coffee shop in Manhattan.

Jessica waited there all day for him. And, a week later, the cops found his body in the Hudson River, bearing the same marks of violence as the murders he linked together.

Dana Smith had slammed into Jessica’s offices three weeks later. Terry had kept his sister just barely in the loop, trying to keep her safe. He’d failed to take into account his sibling’s temperament, and, when Jessica couldn’t tell Dana how her brother had died, Dana swore she was going to find something to substantiate what her brother said he found.

Despite Jessica’s best efforts, Dana went rogue. Jessica tracked her as best as she could. Through her contacts, Jessica learned that Dana bought an image inducer off of a gang, fake papers for a “Linda Parsons” from an up-and-coming hacker, and a slew of background fluffing and fake references from a man on the black market only known as the Weasel.

With these things in hand, Dana got a foothold into Oscorp, taking advantage of gaps in their HR process. She’d been with the company for less than a day before she disappeared. She must have gotten her hands on something, perhaps even something from her brother’s desk. 

Now a fifth person had something on Oscorp, and Jessica didn’t want the case anymore. All she wanted Gwen Stacy to do was run. Anything else wasn’t worth it.

Frustrated, Jessica rubbed both hands through her hair. Then her phone beeped. Lifting her head, Jessica stood, hunting down the device. She picked up the pace when it beeped another two times, finding it under her jacket with only 14% battery. She’d received three texts from Tony Stark, of all people.

The first was an address—the Avengers Compound in upstate New York.

The second was a bare bones invite—a time, and a date.

The third text was a threat. _If you’re not here in an hour, you will be arrested for violating the Sokovia Accords II. Maximum sentence is life, FYI._

“What the fuck…” she whispered.

She had never paid attention to the Sokovia Accords and never cared that the second iteration basically pardoned everyone who was turned into a criminal by the first go around. But what she did know was that the second Accords made the Avengers the only UN-sanctioned superhero organization in the entire world. If lives were at stake, only the Avengers had jurisdiction to act before local police or military could step in.

None of that had mattered to Jessica. The Defenders had never been interested in legitimacy or government backing. They never had to worry about the lack of it either. The Avengers, in charge of acting in accordance with the second Accords, always looked the other way when the Defenders hit the streets.

They had an understanding. So much for that.

Fuming, Jessica made a call. Luke’s phone went straight to his voicemail. “Fuck!” Jessica tried a different number.

Matt picked up on the second ring. “Murdock speaking.” He sounded distracted.

“Please tell me you were also called to heel by Lord Fuckwad.”

“His legal reasoning is not entirely sound,” Matt commented, voice hushed. “The features of the Accords that made it highly unconstitutional in the United States have not changed much. Any charges-”

“I don’t want to hear about our _future court case_ , Matt,” Jessica interrupted. “I want to hear what our plan is right now.”

“Well… Upstate New York is lovely this time of year.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hm, yes. Have an exit strategy.”

Jessica’s face twisted. “Please, I’m not fucking new.” She exited the call, yanking on her jacket angrily.

Gwen Stacy would just have to wait.

 

-

 

Tony took in a deep breath, his eyes closed. He wished he got into meditation with Pepper like he’d promised. He’d been kicked out of the second session when he fell asleep and started snoring, and he had used that as an excuse to avoid meditation ever since. Now, he wished he’d given it another go, that he’d allowed himself to build up skill in a technique that could help him calm down.

Because the word jittery didn’t even begin to describe what he was feeling right now.

Tony had been sitting on his findings for almost two months. He dug through years of suit recordings, CC cameras, and confiscated footage. He even overhauled a scheduled update of FRIDAY’s to make sure her wires weren’t crossed, making her see double. And when all Tony could come up with was more and more back-up evidence of their Seven Spideys theory, FRIDAY became unbearably smug.

Then Tony woke up one bright winter morning and knew the time had come. He spent the next three days prepping and gathering his data, mentally walking through all scenarios. Tony had FRIDAY send out a message to New York’s four biggest alliances at the very last moment—be there or be square. Or, rather, be there or have the full weight of the international community crashing down on you and your very illegal activities.

Tony was nothing but a supreme, A++ bullshitter. Built his fortune on it, actually.

The only group that called his bluff was the X-Men. Charles Xavier left a long, clipped message, citing laws and regulations and obscure things about US sovereignty when it came to UN agreements, which did nothing but remind Tony that Charles used to be a long-winded university professor. Tony would receive no X-Men that day.

It was probably for the best. Tony—and FRIDAY—both thought that the likelihood of X-Men involvement in this was super slim. The X-Men had a thin and hard won veneer of legitimacy in their society, especially on US soil. Xavier wouldn’t tolerate one of his people also stepping in as a vigilante. Vigilantism was a legally gray area constantly fluctuating between being a 100% illegal activity to being 50% okay due to various interpretations of the Good Samaritan law. The possibility for conflict was way too high. And if one was moonlighting as a vigilante on the down low, well, good luck trying to hide a secret that big from a telepath!

Anyway, it was probably better that the X-Men weren’t coming. According to FRIDAY, Tony already had a room of seventeen enhanced, super powered, or otherwise well-equipped people, pissed and ready to fight him. Tony, having been awake for seventy-two hours trying to pull all of this together, was half-tempted to walk in the room in full Iron Man armor. _Fight me,_ he thought.

It was about that moment when the coffee was snatched out of his hands. Outraged, Tony turned on his betrayer, only to see Rhodey standing there, all dolled up and pretty in his military uniform.

“The hell,” Tony settled on, the last syllable a half-hearted whine.

“Don’t start with me,” Rhodey said, shoving a water in Tony’s hand instead. “Let’s get this over with, whatever this is. Then you need to sleep.”

Pepper and Rhodey were in cahoots again, it seemed. “You can’t make me.” His best friend glanced at him wordlessly, the stare heavy with the weight of their shared history. Tony capitulated. “Sorry, babe, of course you can. I’ll wrap this up ASAP.” He even took a sip of the water, as if to prove his obedience.

The corner of Rhodey’s mouth ticked up, breaking his stern expression. “Better. You’re learning.”

“Old dogs, new tricks,” Tony countered, tapping his friend’s chest twice before marching to his captive audience.

After a moment, Rhodey fell in step behind him. Rhodey was unhappy with him, Tony could tell. Of course he was. Tony had aimed the same hammer at Rhodey as he had the whole party, and Rhodey had a very complicated relationship with Sokovia Accords, even if he did help write the second one.

“Sorry, Rhodey,” he said.

Behind him, Rhodey snorted. “No, you’re not.” He clapped a hand against Tony’s shoulder though, gripping it companionably. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? Then you can explain to me why you thought it was necessary to throw your weight around like an absolute tool.” They walked out to the compound’s lobby area together.

The place was built to impress—or repel. It took inspiration from industrial design—shiny floors, monochromatic color choices, exposed piping, etc. The room was set in a large rectangle with the entrance on the farthest end. The longer walls were dotted with occasional art pieces—some commissioned, some donated, all Avengers themed. Those same walls fed into the highlight of the wall opposite the entrance—a large stylized A that came to stand as the symbol of the Avengers. Two staircases were set into that wall, curving behind the A to meet at a three inch thick steel core door that demanded voice and biometric data for entry—and, when Tony was feeling extra paranoid, a super long password.

Despite not being very hidden, people rarely saw the door itself. The lobby was often as deep as most people ever got into the compound. Beyond it were their living areas and training space… their home away from home. Their safety and security. Tony wasn’t about to let the public inside. Even friends got escorted and watched, and, right now, Tony wasn’t sure if any of them were friends.

Hence the lobby. He wasn’t going to lead people to the warm and comfortable rec room or the—frankly—too small conference rooms. And doing this outside was asking for trouble.

Tony started walking down the stairs, eyes flickering over the assembled crowd. Everyone was standing just in front of the Avengers logo.

How they stood was telling. The Defenders were in a loose and not entirely friendly grouping off to the left. They looked like they were posing for the cover of some album, each under the impression that the other three were the backup singers. Near them, the Four stood in a circle, facing each other in a huddle. Tony was half expecting Reed to scatter them with a chipper and coach-like “break” at any moment.

The Avengers, in contrast, were scattered throughout the room—a testimony to the still-shaky alliance that held them together. The gaps in the group were obvious—Thor, Bruce, Vision. Barnes. Wanda was standing off by herself, visibly unhappy. Behind her, Sam was by Steve. Both veterans—one modern, one WWII—were turned in slightly to each other, as if they were talking and not tracking Tony’s every move. To the right of the Defenders, Wade Wilson was messing with his phone, the only person not in civvies, and Clint and Natasha were off on the other side of the room, body language tense. The only Avenger that looked up and smiled at Tony was Scott. His default friendly demeanor was countered by Hope’s cool, narrow-eyed glare. Like a Golden Labrador guarded by his very suspicious cat.

Well, Tony wasn’t in this to make friends. He walked down the rest of the steps, hands in his pockets. When his entry into the lobby finally caught everyone’s attention, what little conversation there was ceased. Though he kept up his smile, his hackles rose. As discordant as they all were with each other, they sure as hell bonded quickly when it came to the shared enemy in the room.

“Why are we here, Stark?” Natasha demanded.

Tony casually strolled into the middle of them, one hand in his pocket. “Let me go ahead and rephrase that question for you: _what_ are we here?” He paused, spinning around once to look at the sea of familiar faces. “This is meant to be more of an interactive thing. But it’s okay, I’ll answer: We are a room of _pants-on-fire liars_.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhodey palm his face.

“Excuse you?” Sue prompted, arms crossed over her chest.

Tony pointed at her. “Right, thank you, Sue. Dr. Storm, everyone. So, yes, correction, not all of you are liars. Only some of you—seven of you, if I’m lucky. No, the rest of you are either enablers or just plain stupid. Which, before any of your panties get in a twist, _relax_. I was in that second category too until just recently. You will be enlightened!”

Tony clapped his hands twice. Right on cue, a rainbow of holographic banners formed out of thin air, surrounding everyone like a circular wall. This startled Tony’s guests out of whatever stance they’d committed to. Even Wade looked up from his phone, blinking in surprise at the blue shaded banner he was standing in. Tony watched with satisfaction as the rest moved automatically to the center of the circle, like herded cattle.

Each banner boasted a darkened silhouette at the top. Under the picture was a series of stats—some obvious, some extrapolated based off of video evidence. It compared biographical and physical data, identifying strengths, weaknesses, and areas of improvement. FRIDAY was nothing but thorough.

Tony let everyone have a second to look at the ones closest to them before asking, “Anyone like to hazard a guess what these are?”

“A weird kink you’re forcing us to be party to?” Jessica drawled, her pale face lit up by the red light of the banner closest to her.

“No, nice try though. Anyone else?”

Like a reluctant student, Clint half-raised his hand. “It’s FRIDAY’s training profiles,” he said impatiently. “We all have one of these, Stark. Why are you handfeeding us this?”

“Fascinating,” Reed muttered, reading the one closest to him. There was a dawning understanding in his eyes.

“Isn’t it?” Tony said, unable to help himself. Then, back to Clint, he said, “I’m handfeeding you because some of you still need to be hand fed.” Tony made a sharp gesture at the ceiling, and one of the banners broke out of rank, zooming up to face off with Clint. Everyone stepped back, even Clint. The silhouette on the banner bloomed with color—a silhouette no more. “Meet Spider-Man—one of them, anyway. 49 years old, 5’9’’, 165 pounds. At least 80% deaf, if not more, but compensates pretty well. He’s also very well trained in hand-to-hand combat, almost professionally so. Almost like he was training by a super spy organization, hm?” 

The whole banner was tinted purple, because FRIDAY was anything but subtle. Behind Clint, Natasha’s expression went stony. Clint’s own was unreadable. 

Meanwhile, Johnny was cackling. “Man, come on. Spider-Man’s not that old.”

“You don’t think so?” An orange profile flew up to face Johnny so quickly, the hot-head flinched back, stumbling into his sister. “Meet Spider-Man #4. 27, 6 foot, 175 pounds. Brawls like a frat boy, much to the disappointment of his loved ones, I imagine. Has a tendency to _singe_ his boots when he’s cornered. Sound familiar?” Johnny’s face fell quickly during Tony’s blistering delivery.

The room was very quiet.

Tony paced back to the displays. With a hand gesture, FRIDAY revealed the next profile—this one was red. “Meet Spider-Man #3. 42, 5’10’’, 165 pounds. Not so well trained in hand-to-hand combat, but sure gives it his darned best. Has a psychosomatic limp, possibly from spending two years under house arrest with an ankle bracelet. Works _really well_ with Wasp for some odd reason. Any takers?”

No one said a word. Then, from the Defender side of the room, Danny sighed, shrugging. “I mean. We all know that’s Scott.”

Scott swung around, shooting Danny a betrayed glance. “What? I would never- psycho what? I don’t have a limp! _And_ I have never ever worn a Spidey uniform in my life. _And_ I think this is mean. _And_ I think this is creepy.” He gestured at Tony. “Are you- are you sure your AI isn’t yanking your leg? Because I have absolutely no idea what any of you are-”

Scott stopped mid-sentence, looking around. He took in a deep breath, enough for it to puff out his cheeks. Then, slowly, he let the air out. He stuck out his jaw with a stubborn look, hands on his hips. “Yeah. It’s me. So what?”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The room erupted into noise and sound as the three exposed fake Spideys were suddenly surrounded by people, demanding answers. Johnny shifted hard into denials, Scott defended his life choices, and Clint, the shit, popped out his hearing aids and twiddled his thumbs.

“Stop!” People barely heard him over the ensuing arguments. He jerked his hand to the left, and FRIDAY yanked all seven profiles, projecting them against a wall. “Everyone who has faked being Spidey at least once, go! Stand by your profile so we can figure this out.”

Tony had to shout it a couple more times, but eventually, people started moving. Clint grabbed Scott by the collar and dragged him with him when it looked like he was going to keep jawing off with Hope. Just beyond them, Sam and Matt stood together. Sam was leaning towards Matt, reading out the profiles. Matt settled on Spidey #1. Then Sam himself stood under Spidey #6, crossing his arms. He made eye contact with Tony, daring him to say something about it.

Meanwhile, the Four bickered tiredly. Johnny was still trying to pretend that he wasn’t Spidey #4, which would have been admirable if it wasn’t so stupid. Reed ended the conversation when he planted his hands on his brother-in-law’s shoulder, steering him to his place. “Come on, Johnny.”

Johnny resisted for half a second before going along, grumpily settling under his profile. Then he spied Reed surreptitiously sidling into Spidey #5. “My man!” He shot out a fist companionably, eyes lit up.

Embarrassed, Reed fist bumped him back.

Not all of the Four were so pleased. “What the hell, Reed?” the Thing snapped.

Reed rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s nothing personal, Ben. Spidey just… needs a hand every once in a while.”

Ben sputtered before swinging to face Sue. “Did you know about this?”

“You mean did I notice my husband leaving our bed all hours of the night?” Sue’s tone was dry. “I assumed he was cheating on me.”

“Sue,” Reed bleated, hurt.

She rolled her eyes. “Kidding.”

“Sorry, Nat,” Clint was saying, visibly turning his hearing aids back on.

Natasha didn’t even look that bothered. “Not gonna lie. Kind of impressed you kept your mouth shut. But I’m still pissed at you.”

“Noted.”

Meanwhile, the Defenders were crowding their own deceiver. Matt was smiling very faintly, eyes on the floor. “Remember when you asked me why I had a Spidey suit?”

“Choke on your cane, Murdock,” Jessica fired back. “I thought we were done with the secret shit.”

Matt made a face. “This is barely a secret.”

“But it is fully a trust thing,” Luke snapped. “What are you gonna tell us next? That you have a zombie Elektra stashed in a storage facility?”

“Again?” Danny muttered pointedly.

Matt stiffened. “Too far.”

Tony looked around to see how the other Avengers were responding to this. Wanda was idly poking the edge of Sam’s banner, her powers somehow streaking through and altering the color scheme away from its default gold. Rhodey was facing off with his fellow soldier, but his posture—shoulders bunched up, hands tucked under his elbows—screamed more curiosity than censure.

Only Steve stood back from the crowd, arms crossed over his chest and mouth half-hidden behind his hand. The usual dent between his eyebrows was colossal as he frowned at the gathering of reluctant ally and friend alike down the rainbow road of Spideys. As if sensing Tony’s gaze, Steve’s eyes flicked towards him, inscrutable.

Hesitating for a moment, Tony made his way over.

“I really wish you spoke to me before doing this,” Steve started quietly. “I’ve been… pursuing something on my own about Spider-Man. This makes things a lot more complicated.”

“Why the hush hush?” Tony asked casually, sticking his hands back in his pockets. “I’d prefer to get it all out in the open. Rip it off clean, like a bandage.”

Steve’s mouth twisted. “Discretion keeps things from escalating beyond what we can handle.”

Tony’s face heated. This suddenly was sounding very familiar. “And honesty puts everyone on the same playing field,” he fired back, voice harsh. “No matter how bitter the truth is.”

“Except there’s still one person here with an extreme advantage, don’t you think.” Steve’s reply was flat, and a little too loud. The room went quiet again as all eyes fell on Steve.

Steve took the weight of the combined attention like a physical blow. Tony’s growing temper died quickly at the sight of it, smothered by something infinitely more… kind. It was some kind of cosmic irony that the humblest guy coming out of the Great Depression would be made the most well-known face and figure in modern history. Steve disliked the gazes, the scrutiny, and the admiration.

But when Steve spoke, everyone else shut their goddamn mouths. It was a kind of power that should be given to very few people, and Steve was one of even fewer who used it with great caution.  

When Steve spoke next, he straightened up into a rough parade rest, and addressed the whole group. “This is a… strategy. I’m not disliking the strategy.” Steve looked up and down the line again, sharp eyes lingering on a few faces. “How many of you were just supposed to be seen, not heard?”

“All of us,” Johnny grumbled miserably.

“Most of us,” Sam corrected, shooting Johnny a side-eyed glance.

“He trusted a few of us to directly engage on his behalf,” Matt revealed. “Minimal talking, though.”

Steve nodded, staring off into the distance. “In the forties,” he began reluctantly, “we found out that even the rumor that I was coming was enough to redraw the lines of war. Not only did the Nazis flee, saving civilians and soldiers alike, but they also tended to double up security on high priority targets, which, in turn, let us know they were high priority targets. I’m not ashamed to say we took advantage of it.”

Tony didn’t know that. Howard Stark hoarded everything about the war like a miser.

Steve’s eyes flickered briefly to Tony. “But everyone in the Howling Commandos was on, as Tony said, the same playing field. We trusted each other. We had each other’s backs. And, on a basic level, we knew who we were. We knew who was playing who, and we knew why.” Steve sighed. “So, everyone, I ask you to answer one simple question.” He paused, frown deepening. “Who is Spider-Man? Can anyone here answer that question?”

No one answered. Steve nodded twice, like he expected that, briefly hanging his head. He looked up again, eyes finding Tony’s. “This is why I am not okay with this strategy,” he said quietly. “Because all we’re left with is a masked vigilante who no one knows anything about. An enhanced man who knows everything about every superhero faction in this room. A secretive, distrusting person who is so damn persuasive with everything that he can not only convince our friends to keep lying to us but can also dictate the actions of an entire team with a single phone call.”

Everything in Tony’s heart told him to disagree with Steve, to stomp all over his assumptions and rip apart all of his arguments with extreme prejudice. But in the end, Steve wasn’t wrong. He was stating facts, and the fact of the matter was that even though Tony would never believe Spider-Man was a bad person, this situation left everyone exposed. And they’d had a lot of people over the years take advantage of their weaknesses.

Not everyone agreed with that.

Sam was one of them. “Steve, man, he’s not- it’s not that way.”

“Then what way is it?” Steve asked, genuinely wanting to know. Sam couldn’t respond. “Sam, you’re one of my best friends. You’ve told me everything about you. But you never once told me you were moonlighting as another superhero. And you certainly never told me where all those mysterious leads of yours came from. Those come from Spider-Man too?” Steve’s head cocked. “What does he have on you?”

“Nothing,” Sam snapped. Then he looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “Except… I owe him a few favors.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “Except you owe him a few favors,” he echoed. He looked around the room. “Reed? Sue? Jessica? Matt? Do you all owe him something? Who doesn’t owe him something?” Tony turned away, putting his back to the group. Behind him, Steve said, “So it’s just me and Tony who don’t, huh?”

Tony rubbed his temples. Maybe he’d had too much coffee. Maybe not enough sleep. He’d definitely gone about this the wrong way. Half-hoping Spider-Man was already someone he knew, he went at this to get everyone on the same page. He’d ended up with something much more intense than that.

And Spidey #7, that glowing green profile, was vacant. Spidey wasn’t here.

He felt Steve approach him more than he heard him. Tony turned his head. “Steve,” he said in an undertone. “Whatever you’re thinking-” Spidey wasn’t that kind of kid.

“We need to talk to him. Figure out who he is,” Steve said brusquely, business-like. He made a cutting motion. “This is too much. There can’t be any more of this.”

Tony cocked his head to the side. “I… agree?”

Steve did a double take at that. “Really?” he asked tentatively.

“Well, yeah.” Tony gestured back at the rest of the lobby, that vacant banner. “But I’m stumped, Steve, and so are they. Who is Juror #7?” A guilty look passed over Steve’s face. “Steve, what did you do?”

“Um. Nothing. Yet. Just… Wade might have some insight on that.” Steve turned around, facing the room. When he couldn’t find his man, he called out. “Hey, has anyone seen Deadpool?”

 

-

 

Peter’s work bag fell off Wade’s kitchen table. The chair knocked over with a clatter. Wade barely noticed and didn’t care. He followed Peter down on the table, fists twisted up in his work shirt in a way no iron would ever smooth out. Heart beating like an angry drum, he pressed down hard into him-

At least he did until Peter pushed him just as hard back, hand flattened over Wade’s forehead. Wade whined.

“So, wait, let me get this straight.” Despite being so rudely thwarted, Wade let out a giggle at that. “You walked away from a superhero alliance meeting just because I said I was coming home early?”

“This day must be celebrated as the rare and special occasion that it is.” Wade made kissy faces at Peter through his mask, ready to jump back into debauching his lovely boy.

Peter leaned back even further, scowling. “What happened?”

Wade lifted a shoulder in response. Besides Iron Man cheating and using technology to figure out what Wade had known for months? “Nothing. Just gossiping about Webs like a bunch of grandmas in a sewing circle-” Peter pinched his ear through his mask. “Owie! You’re so rough. Pinch it harder?”

Peter was not in the mood. “Why were they discussing Spider-Man?” he demanded. What little color there was in his face was gone, and his mouth was pressed into a thin, grim line. Even worse, his hands had retreated, balling up into fists by Peter’s knees.

Wade paused. Then he planted both palms on the table on either side of Peter’s legs. “Why do you care?” he challenged quietly.

His thing with Petey wasn’t at all connected to his assignment. It was pure. Clean. _Off the record_ , if you will. Private and just for Wade—and Petey, of course.  But anyone on a mission knew to keep an eye out for unforeseen obstacles. Peter was starting to look very obstacle-y, and his mulish expression wasn’t helping. He started to shift, like he was going to leave, so Wade put his hands on his legs instead. Not restraining. Not pressing down. Just… holding.

Peter’s thighs were tight under his hands. He blew out a sigh. Then he said, “I’m nosy, mostly.” He tipped his chin up. “I kinda grew up with Spidey. All New Yorkers my age did.”

It was a bad lie. That was when Wade realized that there was no way Peter didn’t know about Harry’s nightlife. Peter had to know what Wade knew. Had to. Peter was with Harry for hours at a time. He had to have seen something or stumbled across evidence at some point. It seemed so obvious.

When you knew where to look, the evidence was everywhere. Those shaky pictures of a maskless Harry on the BART in San Francisco was Wade’s first blunt force trauma connection between Harry and his favorite superhero. Okay, yes, there was also an Iron Man with a cardboard suit and a beer belly, and a lady Wolvie chatting up Spidey in the same shot, but that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Because there was also that lawsuit filed on behalf of Spidey against the Daily Bugle’s ill-advised—and brief—practice of photoshopping Spider-Man at crime scenes. Harry donated $75,000 to the pro-Spidey team, one of six anonymous donors to do so. And when Doc Connors in full Rage Godzilla mode took the mayor hostage and demanded Spidey’s head on a spike, who took to the media to denounce the doc’s crazed demands? Harry Osborn. Plus, there was the helpful bit that Harry was exactly Spidey’s height and size, right? Right.

The point was, by the time Harry bluntly alluded to his secret identity in that now infamous press conference, it was old news to Wade.

So there was no way Peter didn’t know. Peter totally knew! And Wade had to confront him about it. He was totally going to do that—right now.

“Aw.” Wade tweaked Peter’s nose. “You’re a Spidey stan.” Okay, so maybe he wasn’t going to confront Petey about it. He was going to drop it. _Like a coward._

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Am not.”

“It’s okay, it’s alright. I’ve stanned a few things in my day. Bea Arthur. Dolly Parton. Dat ass.” Wade sighed, hanging his head. He tapped a nonsensical beat against Peter’s leg. “I hate to break it to you, babe, but my Avengers status isn’t the kind that lets significant others get a meet and greet with their childhood hero.”

Peter’s eyebrows dropped in an impressive scowl. “I am not dating you because you’re an Avenger.”

Wade nodded rapidly. “And this is good! Communication. Me likey. But seriously. I really can’t get you a superbro invite.” He leaned in, confiding, “Webs doesn’t like me.”

Wade thought maybe Peter would continue the irritation from before. Harry aside, Peter didn’t seem very fond of super heroes. Instead, Peter smiled, helplessly amused by something. “Spidey doesn’t like you? Then he’s an idiot.” He looped his arms around Wade’s neck. “Besides, my childhood hero was actually Iron Man.”

Wade groaned in disappointment. “Ugh, boring.”

Peter smiled again, the gesture seemingly pulled out of him. “Yeah, boring,” he agreed. His expression hardened. “If you use your superbro status to get me an introduction to Iron Man, I will literally chuck you out of a window.”

Wade stared at him wide-eyed. Internally, he mourned—fledging birthday gift idea savagely destroyed within seconds of its creation. Petey was so cruel! Outwardly, he said, “Is this what stanning looks like nowadays? Crippling anxiety over meeting your lifelong heroes?”

“Yeah.” Peter’s eyes clouded over. His fingers played with the edges of Wade’s mask. “It’s um. It’s a long story.”

Wade watched him avidly. “Will you tell me later?”

Peter paused, seeming to consider that. He looked up after a moment. “Yeah.” He seemed as surprised as Wade at that answer but also pleased somehow. Like he hadn’t expected it of himself but was happy to see it.

Aw. How adorable. Wade’s withered little heart grew three times that day. Like a pansexual Grinch with a penchant for red. Speaking of which-

“Now,” Wade purred. “Where were we…”

 

-

 

“…Mm gonna get revenge for you, Barbra Streisand.”

It was 11 at night. Wade was muttering into his pillow. Then he hummed something that sounded a little like one of those songs from Frozen. Peter snickered quietly, stroking a hand over Wade’s broad leather and spandex covered back. “Ssh,” he whispered. “Barbra Streisand is a grown ass woman. She doesn’t need you to get revenge.”

Wade made a disagreeing noise but settled, sticking his face deeper into his pillow. Peter didn’t know how he was so content like that, not when he sounded so… suffocated. It couldn’t be comfortable for him, sleeping in his full suit. It had to be easier when Peter wasn’t around, but try and tell that to Wade, though, and he’d make an outraged noise like someone ran over a puppy’s tail with malice aforethought.

Peter shivered and rolled out of the bed, pulling the top blanket with him. He looped it over his head into a hood, pulling it down sharply. Since Deadpool didn’t have superpowered sweat glands, he kept things colder than strictly comfortable when Peter was around. Peter didn’t have the heart to tell him that he got cold easily, which was the real reason he kept stealing Wade’s clothes. At this point, the only draw of sleeping at his own apartment without him was the sputtering heater and the electric blanket Aunt May got him last Christmas.

_Aunt May._ Peter let out a shuddering breath, eyes prickling. Wiping a furious hand over his face, he ducked into Wade’s closet. He crammed himself in two layers of sweaters, a pair of pink fluffy socks, and thick sweats. Phone in hand, he walked out of Wade’s bedroom on light, silent feet.

And into the bathroom he went, turning on the shower. He waited a bit. Then he climbed up on the lip of the tub, opening the small window near the ceiling, second guessing his decision when a blast of cold air cut through the pleasantly warm steam of the bathroom.

Winter was finally here. And, boy, if he thought Wade’s roof was cold before, it was going to be even colder now. Gritting his teeth, he endured it, slipping out of the window and up four feet to the roof. It was there where he immediately sank down in a crouch, tucking his knees and legs into his stolen sweaters.

Only then did he pull out his phone and make the call he’d been dreading all night. It rang three times before being answered with a sleepy grumble.

Peter gave Sue Storm a few seconds to wake up before running full speed into his spiel. “So why am I the last person to know about the super secret superhero meet up today?” Peter waved a vague hand at the night sky. “I mean, kudos to you all for putting the bad blood behind you, but I kind of like to think I had a substantial hand in the fact that you all could be in a room together without starting a territorial pissing contest.”

Sue sighed into the phone. “Bold of you to assume there was no pissing contest,” she whispered. There was a sound on the other end, like a door being closed. When she spoke again, her voice was at its normal volume. “It was about you, kiddo.”

“I heard as much.” Peter shivered, ducking his chin into the collar of his sweater. “Am I kicked off the team, Coach? Before you answer, I’d like to remind you that this is exactly why I avoided all your teams for this very reason. Little known fact: can’t kick me off the team if I don’t belong on any of them. Unless it was something else-”

“Your Spidey Clone Army got cracked wide open.”

There was a constriction around his lungs, like a warning. Peter shook it off. “So? It was an open secret.” He talked about it all the time.

“For an open secret, it was still pretty damn secretive,” Sue responded, sounding annoyed. “All six of them folded like a cheap chair. Tony Stark is pretty scary when he’s sleep deprived.”

“Only six of them?” Peter said without thinking. “I mean—all six of them, gosh…”

“It’s not funny, Webs,” Sue snapped. Then, voice pained, she continued, saying, “And then Cap started asking us about, you know, the favors-”

Peter was starting to get annoyed. “What, Cap had an issue with that too? It’s uh, transactional.”

“So’s the mob’s protection fees.” Taken aback by the comparison, Peter sputtered. Sue pressed on, voice hardening. “And the more Cap talked about it, the more suspicious it sounded to us too.”

For a second, Peter was breathless, unable to summon a word from his deflated lungs, his numb voicebox. Then he said, “Sue, you know me.”

“Yeah, I know you,” Sue admitted quietly, like she didn’t want to. “But… just think about it, Spidey. You have intel on how we operate. You know our identities, our addresses, and our loved ones. You have moles in every superhero faction around. And yet, who are you? Where do you live? Who are your loved ones? How do you operate? None of us know. It’s not the basis of a very trusting relationship.”

Peter was quiet for a long time. “…I guess when you phrase it like that, it does sound pretty skeevy,” he admitted, voice small.

Sue grumbled to herself for a moment on the other end. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. “Look, honey, you’re right. I’ve known you for- what? Ten years now? If there was a bad bone in your body, I think we would have found it by now.” She hesitated. “But this? It just- it looks so bad. It’s not a joke. It’s not something you can get away with anymore.”

Peter tugged on the hair over his ear. “What do you suggest I do?” he asked her. “I can- I can try to talk to everyone? Clear it up?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sue said slowly. “The way it was left? You really only have two choices here if you want things to go back to the way they were.”

“What are they?”

There was a long pause. “You’re not going to like them,” she warned him.

“Hit me.” Peter could take it.

“Drop the mask around us or hang up the suit entirely.”

Peter barked out a harsh laugh. There was no goddamn way. Especially not now with May having to deal with round two of cancer. There was no way in hell he would expose her like that. No. Goddamn. _Way._

“And if I don’t do either?”

“Then, after tonight, you’re not going to have any friends or allies in New York,” Sue said, uncompromising. “I’m sorry, Spidey. That’s just the way it is. I know you want to protect yourself, but we have to protect ourselves too.”


	7. Chapter 7

If you asked Uncle Ben what the first word of every Parker baby was, without hesitation he would say it was ‘no’. _Strong-willed_ was the kindest descriptor of Parker obstinacy, and Peter was a quintessential Parker on that front. Ben Parker took it as a point of pride.

Aunt May, on the other hand, did not. When Peter was growing up, they both started sharing stories of their life before Uncle Ben was ever uncle to anyone. Ben never shied from the bad stories, but he always talked about the reasons behind suffering for a good cause, the importance of standing up for one’s ideals and principles. But when May recounted it, she never mentioned anything so lofty or noble. Instead, she talked about blood that never came out of a young woman’s dress and the horrifying stillness of the night when you stayed up for hours to make sure your loved one woke up again in the morning.

And Ben wasn’t even Spider-Man. He was just a “punk”, an obstinate, hard-headed, quintessential Parker, a person who disliked bullies and victimizers, the kind of man who stood up and got smacked down, only to stand up again to receive another blow.

Growing up, Peter had idolized Ben’s versions of the stories, wasting many a daydream imagining what he’d do in similar circumstances of injustices and simple human cruelty. Hell, the fact that Spider-Man even existed and didn’t just die with the Spider was evidence of how much he’d internalized that admiration. But now that he was older, Peter was starting to understand May’s point too.

People were more important than principles.

Not the kind of heavy musings he’d thought he’d have during a stay at home date night, huh?

Grimacing, Peter pushed away the empty popcorn bowl, flexing his slowly awakening feet as the title card for the movie replaced the rolling credits screen. Yawning, Wade stretched his arms, curling one over the back of the couch. Peter turned into his warmth, moving stiffly to avoid aggravating his sore ribs. Wade’s arm lifted, curling around Peter’s shoulders instead. His gloved fingers toyed with the ends of Peter’s hair, a gesture Peter found more relaxing than he would have ever expected—and Peter was under _a lot_ of tension.

It had been two weeks since that rooftop call to Sue Storm. Needless to say, Peter didn’t drop the mask. Nor did he hang up the suit. But trying to be Spider-Man without friends was really hard. Peter had relied on the others for so long, and not just to wear his suit when he couldn’t be around. He also relied on them for advice, for information, and for backup when things went south.

Now he had no one. Not a single one of his outed former Spideys were taking his calls. The Defenders were keeping up the radio silence, unsurprisingly, but now the Avengers had joined their ranks. So too did the Four, which hurt in an unexpected way. Peter was used to butting heads with the Defenders and the Avengers, but the Four had always treated him like family, like an estranged nephew with the tendency of getting his head stuck in a jar.

It was… upsetting.

But it wasn’t like he’d lost everything and everyone in the last two weeks. He still had Wade. He even sort of still had the X-Men, though they were firmly claiming neutrality on this particular bit of in-fighting. And May had chatted with her old doctor about new treatment plans, and she was feeling optimistic about the options in front of her, even if she still hadn’t told Ben yet.

And Peter still had his job too. Things were looking up. Harry was doing good, and Norman, normally an absentee supervisor unless he had a reason to wring your neck, was even more removed from the picture, distracted by the various business trips he kept taking to DC. Peter might even get through a full evaluation this year without one of those weirdly long, weirdly intense one-on-one meetings with his eccentric CEO. One could hope!

So by many definitions of the word, Peter was _fine_.

But the streets were tumultuous. Fewer crimes were happening, as expected with the weather, but people were agitated nevertheless. The three superhero factions of New York City were antsy, out and about more than usual, and, while the particulars stayed out of the eyes and ears of the people, it was no secret Spider-Man and the other alliances were having issues. On top of that, because NYC’s best enhanced people were restless, the NYPD were on high alert, more present on the streets than they normally were. You had to be a real idiot to start something when both the cops and Iron Man were itching to punch something.

So resentment was very high—and it was all Peter’s fault. Tension on the street never did anyone any good, and Peter knew how to fix it. It was agonizing. Spider-Man was meant to be a binding agent, a bridger of gaps, whether it be between criminals and the justice they were eluding or between prideful friends who had trust issues with each other.

But people were more important than principles. Peter had grown up into adulthood with the fierce determination that he would do everything in his power to make sure Aunt May was healthy, safe, and well-taken care of. And if ensuring that meant he needed to run Spidey solo from this point on… then he’d adjust. Somehow.

Even so, he stared at his burner phone despondently, loosely held in his right hand. He liked having friends.

“Waiting on a text from a hot date?”

Peter’s hand curled around his phone protectively. Swallowing, he said, “You are my hot date.”

“Aw, babe, you say the sweetest things.” Wade pressed a masked kiss to the side of his face, the leather rough against Peter’s ear.

Peter leaned into it. Sometimes Peter wondered if he even wanted to keep his identity secret from Wade. He certainly wasn’t trying hard enough. Besides, Wade knew all of his pressure points already—his name, his family, his workplace. The only thing Wade didn’t know was Spider-Man, and revealing Spider-Man seemed so much less important than revealing Peter Parker. Telling Wade about Spider-Man wasn’t a matter of if—it was a matter of when.

Except…There was still that one thing. That one tiny doubt. Hardly worth mentioning, really. But it ate at him constantly, more now since he was in such a vulnerable place. After all, if Spider-Man could have his shield of complicated and intersecting trusts and understandings ripped out from under him, couldn’t Peter Parker have that too?

Peter rolled his head back, looking at Wade. Wade was flipping through Netflix at a blinding speed, squinting for something to watch. He was scowling, his mouth protruding through his mask. “You know, I was promoted to Executive Assistant III seven months ago.”

Just like that, the childish scowl turned into a huge grin. “I know. I sent you a strippergram.”

Peter made a face at the memory, almost derailing. What a nightmare that was. Peter had to sit through HR trainings for weeks. He shook his head. No. It was time to resolve something that had been eating at him for weeks. “I remember _that._ I mean- did you know they gave me Harry Osborn?”

“Yup.” Wade popped the p, uninterested. “Ooh, _Killer Nurses_. I love me some violated oaths. Wanna watch, get fired up by the stupidity of the medical industry, then do absolutely nothing about it?”

Annoyed by the deflection, Peter grabbed the hand with the remote and pinned it down to the couch, glaring.

Wade’s white eyes widened in his mask. “What?”

“Wade. _Deadpool_ ,” Peter growled, emphasizing the word. “When you walked into Oscorp almost a year ago, you shouted, _whose dick do I have to suck to get a meeting with Harry Osborn?_ ” It was the hottest piece of internal email for weeks. Everyone who forwarded it got reprimanded, and the security guard who had shared the clip was fired. Harry didn’t come out of his office for an entire month.

Wade nodded sagely with a disappointed sniff. “And yet, not a single dick presented itself.”

Peter twisted to face him, an arm slung over the back of the couch. “Have you been checked out for the last few months? Do I have to summarize our relationship for you?”

Wade looked at him fully, incredulous. Then he _laughed_. “Babe. Sweetheart. Apple of my eye. _I know you._ If I tried to use you to get an in with Osborn, you’d push me out a window.” Wade was grinning at Peter still.

It made Peter flush and feel self-conscious. He didn’t want to feel self-conscious—he wanted to be self-assured. Confident. Determined to get at the truth. After all, it was Wade who was always spouting poetics about open communication.

Instead, he sounded grumpy. “I would have sold out Gunter in a heartbeat.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Wade countered. “You’re loyal. I dig it!” Wade pulled on Peter’s head, pushing it down a bit. He ruffled Peter’s hair. “No, you do you, boo.”

Peter kept his head low, nodding. The heat wasn’t just in his face. It was in his eyes too. Their whole thing had started well before Peter had Harry, but Peter hadn’t been able to shake the doubting voice in his head. It was too convenient. After all, Peter didn’t deserve nice things—and this weird asshole was one hell of a nice thing.

And nice things should be treated nicely, Peter decided. He slung his leg over Wade’s lap, putting his back to the TV. Wade froze, blinking rapidly, but with a firm, one-handed grip on Peter’s thighs that told him that Wade really, really didn’t want him to go. Smirking, Peter pressed a hand over his face, covering his eyes.

“Kiss me, doofus.”

Peter never liked being blinded, but he accepted in the same way he accepted rude investors, pens that ran out of ink too fast, and dollars that didn’t stretch as far as they used to. Just the price of doing business. But there was something different to the feeling now, voluntarily taking away his own eyesight like this. Conscious of Wade’s reservations, he’d let Wade dictate the hows and whys of their busy time till the day he died—or they broke up, whichever came first—but there was something a little vulnerable about being like this, perched on another man’s lap. Just sitting there. Open. Waiting. Blinded.

In front of him, Wade was very silent and very still. The remote audibly hit the ground. Then leather slid over skin with a rasping sigh. And still, nothing. Nothing but the sound of an unseen mouth and nose breathing in the same air as Peter, no longer hidden by a mask.

When Wade seemed content to let this go on for another minute, Peter pushed out an exaggerated pout. Like a charm, it worked, Wade letting out a wheezing giggle of a laugh. Then Wade’s gloved fingers threaded neatly through his own, and Peter was rewarded with a hard and wet kiss.

Hands wandered. Mouths kissed. Hips ground into one another—but Wade was in a _teasing_ mood. Peter had unbuttoned their pants, keeping their linked hands over his eyes the whole time, but Wade kept Peter firmly in his lap, not giving him any room to remove any more clothing. At the moment, Wade’s free hand was under his shirt, teasing ever upward but never committing. Peter felt it creep up inch up by agonizing inch, teeth scraping and nipping over his flesh.

“Kiss me,” Peter demanded, squirming.

“Uh huh. I will. What’s this?” Wade asked tenderly, skating his fingers over Peter’s bruised side.

That penetrated Peter’s one track mind—but just barely. “Got tapped by a taxi earlier this week,” Peter lied. He actually got hit by a stolen armored car just two days prior. He had no backup, and the baddies had advanced tech. They got away. Peter obediently reported it to Avengers, not that they responded. “It’s okay. It looks worse than it is. Kiss me?”

“You jaywalking motherfucker,” Wade said fondly. He traced the edges of it, like he could imbue Peter with part of his healing power just by touching him enough. “You’re what’s wrong with this country.”

What was wrong with this country was _Wade not kissing him_. Grumbling, Peter leaned forward, aiming blindly for Wade’s mouth. Wade sucked in a surprised breath. Peter didn’t know why—he missed. His lips skittered over Wade’s mask first, folded over his head. He went lower and found Wade’s nose. Smiling, he nuzzled Wade briefly, aware of but ignoring the textured and bumpy skin rubbing against his cheeks and mouth.

Then, triumphant, he found Wade’s lips and gave the idiot an obnoxiously loud and criminally short kiss. “Hah! There. Was that so hard? Jerk.”

Wade ignored the obvious innuendo. Under Peter, he was tense, almost wooden. Peter wondered if he did something wrong or crossed some barrier when Wade’s big bare palm cupped the back of Peter’s neck, pulling him slightly lower.

Then, sweetly, Wade nuzzled Peter back before giving them both the longer, deeper kiss they’d robbed from each other. Then he slowly tipped Peter sideways into the couch, and Peter shuddered, making room for Wade between his legs.

Yeah, this was going to be good.

Then Peter’s phone started to buzz. Without thinking, Peter sat up sharply, adrenaline shooting through him. Who was trying to get in contact with him? Who needed him? He had to check—now. He gripped Wade’s wrist reflexively. “Let me-”

“Yeah,” Wade interrupted, voice becoming muffled midword. “But it’s not that one, honey. It’s your other one.”

Even as Wade released him, baring Peter’s eyes, a cold chill raced up Peter’s spine. _Other one, other one, other one-_

Peter’s phone—and Spider-Man’s—were virtually identical, starting from brand and going straight down to the fraying duct tape that held their cases together. Only the passwords and subsequent phone contents made the phones stand out from one another, which meant you literally had to be in his phone and broke through his many layers of passwords to note there was a difference at all.

While he’d never pulled both phones out at once, Peter hadn’t thought twice about pulling his burner phone out in front of Wade before. But he had forgotten that Wade’s particular brand of brutal intelligence meant that all those carefully crafted, shallow external differences meant diddly squat to a former assassin who could tell how much porn you watched last night by the way you wore your tie and took your coffee—or so he said.

Not for the first time, Peter felt a hint of what it would be like under the crosshairs of his boyfriend, the barest hint of what it would have been like to be hunted down. All the while, Wade blinked at him, expression impassive under his usually super emotive mask.

Peter shook his head. Wait a minute. No. Who was being overdramatic here? Peter chucked roughly, running a hand through his hair. “…It’s not important.”

Wade looked unconvinced. “How do you know that?”

“I just-” Peter bit down on his lip. He couldn’t just say _because it wasn’t his burner phone_. The one he used strictly for Spidey time. Was he really going to tell Wade that, when Wade had no idea he was hooking up with someone that the Avengers had essentially blacklisted?

No. Peter unclenched a bit, trying to calm his racing heart. No, there were perfectly reasonable reasons to have two cell phones. Hell, Harry had two—one for personal calls and the other for work. Peter could totally be in the same boat. A very innocent explanation. And yet another lie.

Peter was scared, he realized. Maybe he wasn’t ready to tell Wade about Spider-Man after all.

Upset by the thought—here Wade was, not even questioning his phones in the first place—Peter was determined to rewind the night. “Just ignore it,” he said brusquely. “What did you want to watch again? Something about killer-” Peter’s shoulders hunched over as his personal phone vibrated again, like a white lie turning ever closer into a full-blown betrayal. 

Peter stared at Wade. Wade stared back. Wade was hard to read like this, mask on but loose around his jaw.

After another minute of that, Wade pulled away from Peter. “Wanna get that?” he said in a weirdly calm voice.

Defeated, Peter nodded. He stretched for his jacket, hanging off the end of the couch, and tugged out the phone, frowning as he opened it up and checked out the calls he’d missed. All three of them were from Harry. He’d followed up with an unhelpfully vague text asking Peter to call him if he had time.

“It’s Harry,” Peter said flatly, disappointed. Shaking his head, he set aside the phone, trying to inject some cheer in his voice. “But it’s the weekend. Nothing bad ever happens on weekends, right?” Peter pulled his shirt off and crawled back on Wade’s lap. “Let’s get back to where we were, okay?”

Now, Wade was the one pouting. He stayed still, looking somewhere behind Peter. It was so unlike him to look a sexy Trojan Horse in the mouth. Peeved, Peter nipped at his leather covered shoulder. Not expecting that, Wade groaned and came alive again, bucking up into him.

“You need a vacation,” Wade blurted out worriedly, the reason behind his temper suddenly clear. Then he gripped the bottom of his mask tightly in one fist. Two fingers pushed Peter’s chin up and up until he was staring at the ceiling, panting at the feeling of teeth on his throat.

Then Peter’s personal phone buzzed again, three times in quick succession. Wade wheezed slightly, a wheeze that turned into a full laugh when Peter swore filthily at the world and Wade’s cracked ceiling. Knuckles grazed his throat as Wade pulled down his mask again. “Okay, okay. Fine.”

Peter curled both arms around Wade’s neck stubbornly, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “No,” Peter disagreed vehemently. “I’m ignoring it.”

Wade’s body was still shaking with silent laughter. He patted Peter’s back as if to soothe him. “How much is Osborn Jr the kind of guy who says he’s fine while bleeding out on the side of the road?”

Peter wilted at that. “Very much,” he growled, throwing himself after his phone.

Behind him, Wade sighed. “Fucking shit balls.”

_No pressure_ , Harry had texted.

_It’s your day off_ , Harry reminded him, like he didn’t know.

_Hope you’re having a good one_ , Harry concluded.

Peter wanted to punch a wall. “Goddamnit, Harry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. It was a Saturday! He wanted one full lazy day with Wade. Just one. If it wasn’t one job, it was the other.

“Need to go?” Wade asked with false cheer.

No. “Yeah,” Peter said. “Sorry.”

Despite everything, he was starting to get worried. Harry wasn’t fond of texting. He liked people’s voices. If he was texting this much, something was probably wrong. Peter quickly texted him back.

Behind him, Wade was already standing up and walking away. Before Peter could feel too much like a failure, Wade came back, saying, “It’s cold, baby.” Without looking, Peter caught the offered hoodie when it was thrown at him. He made a face at it. It was Spider-Man themed—of fucking course it was.

Peter got up and pulled his shirt back on, then the hoodie over it, and then his jacket over that. He shoved both of his phones in his pockets, scolding himself quietly. He hunted down his work pants and his work shoes, swapping out his pants before bending over to reign in his footwear. Once his work shoes were on, he stood. It was only then that he realized Wade was watching him, still hard to read with his mask so loose around his face.

As if summoned by Peter’s raised eyebrow, Wade closed the space between them, reeling Peter close by the strings. Then he carefully worked a beanie over his head. Wade paused for a moment, just looking at Peter, hands cupping his face.

Then, abruptly, he yanked the beanie over Peter’s eyes. Peter sputtered, confused by the sudden darkness, only to have his confusion interrupted by a filthy kiss. It was full of teeth and tongue and not a little frustration. Peter felt relieved by it. He was so off his game today.

“How long do you think it’s going to take you?” Wade whispered against his lips.

“Not long,” Peter said, chasing his mouth.

Peter felt Wade’s smile. “Mm, I have some stuff too. Things I’ve been putting off. Things I need to handle.” He retreated, briefly pressing three fingers against Peter’s mouth. Peter nipped at them. Giggling, Wade fixed his beanie so it covered his hair and ears, but not his eyes. Then he was backing up even more, hands tucking his mask into his collar.

“Be back here in three hours?” Wade asked cheerfully.

Peter was already groping for the door. “I’ll bring food. Mexican. Promise.”

Wade clasped his hands over his chest. “Heart eyes, mother fucker,” he said with feeling.

What a weirdo.

Peter’s weirdo.

 

-

 

Well. _Fuck._

It wasn’t like Wade didn’t expect Harry to swipe his Petey-Pie from his adoring arms this weekend, but this was just in poor taste. Baby boy’s feet—and mood—were dragging, and it all had something to do with work. You’d figure Webs was more hip to the sufferings of modern man, but no. Apparently not.

And Wade could deal with that. Peter’s resolve was like a brick wall, and he was determined to chase whatever projects he had until he was six feet under. Wade, in turn, was content to just ease him down gently, smothering him with laughter and food and feelings that were too big for what they had. So Wade could deal with him being called away, even when things were starting to get really steamy in Casa de Deadpool.

But did it have to be so damn cold right now too? Canadian boy here, not appreciating it. Like everyone else, Wade hoped Persephone was having a grand old time in the underworld slow-boning her husband, but this wasn’t fair! The chilling he’d been hoping to experience tonight was Netflix and chilling with his sweet boy—the sweetest boy you ever did meet. The kind who didn’t spontaneously combust when the Crypt Keeper gets a little more skin action than planned.

Ah, nuzzles! The cutest of all affectionate gestures. Like bunny kisses. Wade almost nutted in his pants.

But no. Instead, he was outside, cold as balls, looking up the number he’d written down on a pink sticky note several months prior. For emergencies only, the missives had said. Ha! Sucker.

He tapped the number into his cell phone before crafting his master text: _Meet me at W 38 th Street and 9th Avenue. I’m the cutie in red above the meat market. If my prince doesn’t come and make my dreams come true, I’m livetweeting the remainder of my super secret mission. #fullfrontalwithdeadpool #dedicatedtotransparency #bestAvenger_

After a beat, he followed up with another text: _#suckitTonyStank_

Damage done, he put away his phone and pulled out some paper as well as some filched diner crayons. He settled on the edge of the roof. He was in for the long haul. He had three hours. And what better time waster was there than drawing mini-Deadpools saving the day? Besides porn. And television. And watching his pretty boy breathe?

Wade sighed sadly. Three hours. He could last three hours. He started scribbling away.

20 minutes passed like this before Wade became aware of another presence on the roof. A sole rubbed harshly against the ground. A man sighed. “That’s one hell of an ultimatum, Wade.”

Wade chuckled and didn’t turn, unwilling to pull away from his current masterpiece: a tiny Peter with bed head, holding hands with an equally tiny Deadpool. Wade was focusing very hard on rendering Peter’s hair. There was a particular flip to it in the morning, like it wanted to defy gravity but didn’t have the strength to all on its lonesome.

His employer sat down on the edge of the roof with him, as unconcerned as Wade was about the drop. “How did you know the request didn’t come from SHIELD?”

“The 20 Gs in my bank account,” Wade admitted cheerfully. He offered a blank piece of paper and half the crayons. The other man hesitated before accepting. “When I take missions from SHIELD, somehow SHIELD always ends up charging me. Why is that?”

“The inevitable property damage?”

“There is more to life than things,” Wade scoffed wisely. “So tell me, Boy In Blue, how you sleep at night, knowing you’re paying a moral degenerate to out your fellow superhero?”

“Outing is a strong word,” Steve Rogers commented soberly. He fiddled with a red crayon. “But yes, I can see where you’re coming from.” 

There was silence between the two of them. Eventually, Steve started drawing too. Wade knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. This gave Wade some time to collect his thoughts.

Sure, he was the moral degenerate in question, but there was a piece of him that was strangely… disappointed in Steve. Not enough to do anything about it, mind you. But just enough to make Wade go ‘huh’. He hadn’t quite expected Steve to be the one behind this.

“You know, there were so many theories I had behind this,” Wade confided with him eventually. “Monetary gain. Blackmail. Kidnapping. Racketeering, ooh.” He wiggled—organized crime was so fun! So many people to murder, so little time. “But now that I know it's you, my inclination is to be at least 40% less stabby about it.”

Steve eyed him warily. “Only 40%?”

“It could get lower,” Wade offered generously. “If I knew why.”

Steve looked thoughtful at that. Wade didn’t press, giving him time to consider it. He started scribbling an outline of Spidey with his arms crossed over his chest. That narrow lensed glare was on point. Wade sighed internally. Even cartoon Spidey hated him. And here Wade was, giving Spider-Man another reason.

But Wade trusted Steve in a way he trusted few other people in his life, and he didn’t trust easy. Or often. And Steve had earned that trust, but not in the way he earned most people’s trust. The fact that he was Captain America was exciting, sure. Wade grew up wearing Captain America on his underwear like everyone else, and he was tickled _pink_ at the idea of working so closely to a hero who had been so unknowingly close to his junk.

Nah, that wasn’t the bit that sold Wade—never meet your heroes, and all that rot. No, he trusted Steve because of what Steve did—or, more specifically, Steve didn’t do. Or, even more specifically, what _Wade_ did, the absolute fuck up Wade had made of his own life, and the undeserved lifeline he’d been offered in the process.

See, friends, Wade stole Cable’s time-wimey device. Right? You remember that, you watched the movie. But when he attempted to do his own fixie-fix of his fucked up storyline, Cable’s device blew up in his face before Wade even had a chance to leave Feels On Wheel’s Neverland Ranch. While Wade’s scattered brain fired randomly, giving him goofy dreams of dead Vanessa living and fake Wade dying and baby Hitler pooping, the X-Men were gathering the bits and pieces of his body and putting this Humpty Dumpty back together again.

They shouldn’t have bothered. Wade woke up screaming. And angry. And grieving all over again.

And then he became the worst version of himself. The most despicable. He went off the rails, rigging elections, committing assassinations, and selling weapons to people who couldn’t be trusted with a thumb tack, let alone a tank. He even tried to off the king of Wakanda once on a lark. He just didn’t care anymore.

As he sank deeper and deeper into his pit, the world became angrier and angrier with him, and he welcomed it with open arms. Please, someone. Kill him.

Please.

Then Deadpool crossed paths with the wrong secret agents, merrily screwing up the wrong SHIELD job in the wrong foreign country. Suddenly, Wade didn’t just have every secret agent and secret society after his ass—he had the goddamn _American Dream_ on his tail too. This sparked off a whole year where Deadpool succeeded at zero international assignments. His reputation, tanked!

But even that didn’t penetrate the haze. It was a mild blip of interesting crammed into an ocean of crap and more crap on top of a crap sundae.

Then something changed—a chance encounter at a vulnerable time.

Two years into his stint of being the Worst Person EverTM, Wade was living in a trash heap of an apartment in Austin, Texas. He was on a health kick then—all organics, right? So he mixed concentrated puffer fish poison with sap from a rare purple agave plant, chased it down with some 150 proof tequila, and settled in for a brief, ephemeral shuffle off of his indestructible mortal coil. For the first time in two years, Wade received a visitor—but this visitor waited until he was alive to have a little chat.

An hour later, Wade woke up. He was hanging off his bed upside down, tequila still intact in his dead grip. Across the room, Captain America had his back to him, looking at the one pristine surface in Wade’s entire apartment. The one perfect photo, kept clear of crap. Like a shrine to a dead person. Because it was.

“You would have liked her,” Wade rasped. He took an idle sip of the tequila. “She was American.”

Steve looked over at him, frowning. He looked so… clean. Bare jawed and smooth cheeked, hair perfectly combed back like he’d seen the inside of a shower recently. Wade, on the other hand, was covered in sweat and grime, old blood and vomit from his last cocktail. He’d pissed himself at least once. He bet Steve smelled nice. He bet Steve would start smelling a whole lot less nice once they started fighting again. Perked up by that, Wade giggled and rolled clumsily off the bed, landing on his ass.

Steve didn’t take advantage of this. His loss. Wade needed two minutes, tops, then they could get this party started, WWE style.

“Would she have liked this?” Steve asked wonderingly.

Wade chuckled, uncaring. “She would have kicked my ass.” Vanessa had very little patience for his crap. That was why he loved her so much. Sniffling, he crawled away from Steve on his hands and knees.

After a beat, Steve followed. “Wade, I’m here to take you to the Raft.”

Wade let out a disinterested grunt, hauling himself up to his bathroom sink. That explained the pounding of little military feet down the hallway and the amateur light show shining through his window. “Cool. Wanna bet how long it will take before I get out?” Wade turned on the faucet and stuck his mouth underneath it, gulping greedily. He spat out the water. Cool air skated over his sweaty, bare skull.

When he looked up at the cracked mirror, he saw Steve watching him with something close to pity. “What if you didn’t have to escape in the first place?”

Wade gripped both sides of the sink. “Is this my recruitment to the U S of Assholes military society? I gotta pass. I did my time.”

“No, it’s your recruitment to something bigger than that,” Steve countered. Jesus. The man believed it too. “A chance at a life. A chance to make a difference in the world.”

“Oh, god, not another fucking Colossus,” Wade muttered, ignoring the familiar pining pain for his old friend.

“What was that?”

“I said, _fuck the world_ ,” Wade said dully. “It took everything from me.”

Strangely, Steve was smiling. “Yeah. It does that,” he said. He closed the space between them, clapping a hand on Wade’s dirty shoulder, gripping it companionably. When their eyes met in the mirror, Steve’s were a clear blue.

Wade stared back—and not because he was so pretty. But because America’s favorite soldier wore a look of weary pain that was too familiar for Wade to ignore.

“And it does it over and over and over again, even when you think there’s nothing left to take.” Here, Steve hesitated. Here was where the doubt trickled in. “But is there not a single person still left for you who makes all that suffering worth it?”

“…Wade.”

“Wade, are you listening to me?”

Wade shook himself out of the memory. “Sorry, Papa Bear. Just thinking about our last fight.” He shuddered in the cold air, peeking at the various pedestrians of New York City between his toes.

Steve frowned. “In Cancun?”

“Nah. Texas.”

Steve made a face. “That wasn’t a fight.”

“Says you.” Wade cupped his own cheek, turning away and letting a single tear fall. “Punched me in the feels, if I recall. Still haven’t quite recovered. Oh, _woe_ -”

“Stop,” Steve groused, shoulders bunching up and cheeks reddening. Wade cackled, slapping the edge of the roof between them.

Steve had given him a way out back then, a way out that Wade would never be able to properly thank him for. And Steve had seen him at his literal worst ( _vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti_ ) and still thought there was potential. Steve saw worth in him, even when Wade didn’t. Even when the X-Men backed off and Cable told him to lose his number. Even when eternal optimist Colossus started doubting he would ever turn a new leaf.

And, well… Wade was well aware of his own role in Steve’s life. He was a substitute for Barnes. It was open secret that the infamous “Winter Soldier” swung wildly from hunting down remnants of HYDRA and its offshoots to talking Wakanda scientists into putting him under ice for good. Barnes wouldn’t let Steve save him, but Wade would. Wade so wanted to be saved.

Of course, no one made it easy. There were practically riots when Steve pushed Wade forward as an Avenger initiate. Stark quit three times in protest. The public didn’t trust him, his team didn’t care for him, and the government tried to off him regularly. Wade prove himself ten times over, stronger and harder than anyone else, and took the worst assignments, even one where some AIM scientist successfully killed him for an entire month.

Wade’s smile faded. And now, here he was. Taking money from one friend to out someone he admired. Maybe he wasn’t so far away from his despicable past as he thought.

Steve nudged him with an elbow. “Wade, you invited me here,” he reminded Wade.

Wade nodded rapidly, making a rolling gesture with his hand. “Right, right. Stabby stabby, Spidey unmasking, your motivation revelation… Go on, go on.”

Steve shook his head slowly. But, as usual, he didn’t question Wade’s laffy taffy thought process, soldiering on. “I said, _you were at the meeting. You know why_.”

“You paid me well before Iron Man cracked the Case of Too Many Spideys,” Wade reminded him.

“The Four, the Defenders, the Avengers, and the X-Men do not get along,” Steve started quickly, as if he expected that. “And yet, Spider-Man makes a call, and they’re all collaborating. Minimal backtalk, minimal chatter, minimal fuss. And there’s a lot of bad blood between these groups, Wade.” His eyes were earnest. “The only people I’ve seen who could command that kind of teamwork was SHIELD back in the day, and, trust me, there was a lot of bad at SHIELD just under the surface.”

Wade paused. Then he paused again. Then he paused so long that he blurted out, “So? Webs’ track record speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“And yet sometimes our success and failure lies solely with Spider-Man’s interference,” Steve countered disapprovingly.

Wade waved that off. “That happens with everyone at some point.” It wasn’t unusual for one team member or the next to land a Hail Mary to seal the deal. “If he’s coordinating things behind the scenes, you know he’s doing it for a good reason.”  

“I'm just… worried that our ignorance will get someone hurt. The Avengers have already gone through one split. SHIELD is barely operating at the moment. The Four can’t shoulder everything, and the Defenders are barely keeping their heads above the water. And Xavier’s group… well, you know better than us-”

“Eh. Depends on the canon you’re referencing, TBH.”

“A lot of _innocent people_ will suffer if we don’t keep our acts together,” Steve pressed heatedly.

Wade only hummed in response to that. Then he glanced over Steve’s shoulder. The subject of Steve’s art was telling. Wade held onto it for a beat before saying, “Thinking this could lead to a second Civil War arc?” Steve’s crayon paused. “Not my favorite plotline, if you know what I mean.”

Under Steve’s hand was a brilliantly rendered Iron Man, shaded in only tones of red. He’d drawn his fellow Avenger in the pose Steve perhaps knew him best—flying from enemy to enemy in an almost reckless, but entirely heroic pitch. Wade would have probably drawn him on the ground, repulsors facing the audience—but, then again, that was the way _Wade_ knew him best. And Steve probably didn’t need the reminder of what it looked like to face off with old friend.

“Tony and I are on the same page. For now,” Steve said grimly. He surrendered his crayon to Wade, folding up the picture and tucking it into his jacket. “I think Tony will do just about anything to protect him, even if Spidey becomes the villain. Especially if Spidey becomes the villain.” And then, almost to himself, Steve muttered, “He’s pinned too much of his hopes on this one kid.”

Wade would think Steve was jealous if he didn’t actually _know_ Steve. No, Steve knew the dangers of pinning all of your hopes and dreams on one individual. Wade did too, for that matter.

Steve finally sighed, swinging a thin smile towards Wade. “Anyway, it's all speculation. That’s why I need facts. That’s why I need you, Wade.”

Wade itched his ear fretfully. “Cap, do ya- do you know why I’m trying so hard to be a good guy? Me being a good guy is not like you being a good guy. Right? I was a soldier, then I was a merc. My life didn’t change from one stage to the next. I was paid to kill people.”

Steve gazed at him steadily, unflinchingly. That was something they didn’t put in the history books. Steve believed in their cause thick and thin, but he wasn’t proud of everything that happened during World War II. He still had nightmares over the people he had lost, over the people he failed to save.

Wade kept going. “Maybe I had a conscience the whole time, but I wasn’t gonna do anything about it. A conscience is a liability. It’s, uh, expensive. There was never any natural incentive to be better, especially when killing some dude nets you half a mil in under two hours.”

“What’s your point, Wade?”

“Webs was the first real superhero I ever met in my entire life,” Wade confided intensely. Steve’s eyes widened a bit. Wade broke, wilting under the patriotism. “Okay, met is such a strong word. I kinda stalked him a bit-“

“And the truth comes out,” Steve huffed, but there was a reluctant smile there too.

Emboldened, Wade wiggled until he was half-turned between them. He gesticulated wildly. “So, picture this. I was in New York 8 or 9 years ago—pre-Francis, you know, so I looked like a fucking Canadian super star-”

He had a mark—bad dude, human trafficker, picked up the wrong senator’s daughter, etc, etc. He’d found him of fucking course and had settled in for the night to do recon. It was a good spot—no cameras, no street access, no lights.

It was so good, some little twerp had set up across the street and was vandalizing the wall, spray-painting the shit out of it like he was the next Banksy. Whatever. Wade didn’t care.

“Then, lo and behold, who swoops in but Spider-Man. Being a stupid kid, the tagger pulls out a knife. It’s- it’s over in ten seconds, _‘cause it’s Webs._ ” Wade had been fucking delighted at the time—dinner, and a movie. Then he was furious—because of fucking course this meant the cops were coming. Wade’s mark was gonna get spooked and leave, and Wade would have to track him down again! So rude.

But Spider-Man didn’t leave. He didn’t call it in either. Instead, he crouched next to the kid he’d webbed in to the wall. Then he started talking.

“So I sat there, like a fucking chump, listening to Spider-Man chat to this future gangbanger. And, goddamn, Spider-Man did not take death threats for an answer.” Webs had picked out something about the kid’s backpack and figured where he went to high school. He started chatting about that and art and school and college. Families. Friends. “And the kid opens up eventually, right? Because you gotta. Webs’ webs take hours to dissolve, and if he’s just gonna chill there, chatting at you, well, you might as well chat back. And- and this kid is like a normal kid, right? Everyone in the neighborhood is ganging up, he feels like he has to too. And obviously Spidey disagrees.”

“That’s right,” Steve said, nodding along, like he and Wade didn’t give huge chunks of their lives away to a similar institution with awesome uniforms, free weapons, and a staunch us-versus-them attitude.

“But Webs, he listens too,” Wade continued. “He pushes past the potty mouth and the threats and the comments about people’s mothers until the kid starts acting like a kid again. And then, at the end of the night, Spidey just… lets him go.”

“That was risky.”

“Yeah, it was,” Wade agreed. “But it was a good thing to do. The _right_ thing to do.” Wade shrugged. “Did he deserve that chance? Maybe, maybe not. But Spider-Man gave him it anyways. No strings attached, no promises. Just a second. Fucking. _Chance_.”

There was a quiet moment between the two of them. Cars revved underneath their feet and signal lights flashed. Pedestrians walked quickly down the sidewalks, shoulders up to their ears and their breath coming out in plumes of fog. It would get dark quickly tonight. With it, any residual heat of the sun would vanish.

Steve broke the silence, smiling. “So. Your first superhero, huh?”

Wade chuckled self-consciously. “I know it’s not much. Just… talking to his natural enemy like the kid might as well have been his friend.” He kicked his feet out, no longer facing Steve. “You know what I realized that night, Cap? People don’t do that. People aren’t that good. Most people would just call the cops and let this angry little brat ruin his own life, reap the consequences of his own shitty decisions.”

But Webs didn’t, he didn’t say.

Wade started cramming his crayons in his pouches. “This didn’t change my world view, mind you, because, hello, it’s still me. People are, as I’ve always thought, generally awful and deserve to die, but for that one night, one guy showed me it didn’t have to be that way.”

Petey’s picture he put away last, thumbing the edge of it nervously. It wasn’t as technically or artistically attractive as Steve’s sketch—it was a dirty limerick to a full orchestra composition of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, let’s be real—but it was made with feeling.

“If I’m wrong,” Steve said suddenly, “lord it over me.” Wade looked up, surprised. Steve shrugged. “Please. Make fun of me. Remind me of the 40K of my pension I used to send you on a wild goose chase to out a choir boy who never harmed a flea. I welcome it.” He clapped a hand on Wade’s shoulder, squeezing it briefly. “But if I’m right, I need to know—we need to know. And the only way to figure out if I’m right or wrong is to start having some honest conversations, starting with Spider-Man and his identity. And, unfortunately, that’s a conversation we’ll have to force.”

“Not to sound out of character or anything, but honest conversations started with dishonest methods rarely turn out well. Trust me, I was almost married.”

Steve squeezed his shoulder again before releasing him, rising to his feet. “He had his chance to do things his way. Now it’s in our court.” Wade followed him, appreciating the steadying hand the other man offered. “How close are you?”

So close, he could almost smell Spidey’s hair gel. “There’s… complications.”

“What kind?”

Wade thought about Peter grinning at him by the door. The beanie pulled over his fluffy head. The hoodie that enveloped him in Spidey’s iconic colors. The heat of the bruise that swelled, ugly and brutal, over his ribs.

“The personal kind,” Wade said briskly. He glanced at his watch. “Give me a week, and I’ll out our boy.” Wade paused. Then, carefully, he said, “Promise me you won’t weaponize this information, Cap. This is to clear the air only. Or, if he is on the wrong track, to drag him back on the right one.” Like he tried to do for that tagger so many years ago.

“I’ll do my best,” Steve promised. They shook on it.

 

-

 

A gaunt, unhappy man stared at Harry in the reflection of his office window. Beyond the figure, the sky was almost black, clouds thick and heavy with rain. It was almost 5pm but it looked much, much later. It would rain tonight. Maybe even the next. The internet warned him about the roads and calculated his route home.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going home. 

“Play it again,” Harry muttered. His jacket was off, thrown carelessly over his desk, and his hands were shoved in his pockets. He stared out over the city—the lights, beginning to twinkle. The masses below. 

“ _Harry,_ ” the message started again, tone sharp, sweet, familiar. _“Stop making me leave voicemails on your phone. I’m heading over to your place now. I want to talk to you. In person. We can get through this. I love you._ ”

The message ended. The silence was almost too much. “Again.”

“ _Harry. Stop making me leave voicemails on your-_ ”

Harry rubbed a hand over his mouth, shuddering. There were slightly sticky tracks over his face still. He’d hardly slept since…

Since he hurt her. Gwen. Oh god. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve to be around her. He didn’t deserve to hear her voice. But like his father always said, Harry was made from weaker material. Flawed from the womb. “Again.”

“ _Harry. Stop making me leave voicemails_ -”

Harry kept rubbing a hand over his mouth, gripping his jaw briefly. The thing is, Harry barely remember sitting down with her. Weird, right? He’d practically memorized every moment with her, infatuated as he was, and yet that date… barely anything registered. He just remembered it being simultaneously too bright and too cold, his skin itching clear down to the bone. A mounting alien rage had swarmed up on him suddenly, like nausea from a stomach, but it was colored with this sharp, insecure pinch of humiliation. How dare she, he remembered thinking. (How dare she what?) Then his vision tinted a sickly yellow so vicious, Harry would have assumed the interference of paint or egg yolk.

Then, when his vision cleared again, she was there—Gwen, stunned and on the floor. Jessica Jones in between them, ready to fight him. Disbelief in Gwen’s eyes. Fear in Jessica’s.

“ _I love you,_ ” Gwen said. Harry wondered if he imagined that note of doubt.

The door behind Harry opened. Lights flickered on, momentarily blinding Harry even as he quickly straightened up, wiping his face off, ready to face the worst. But at the immediate apology, Harry relaxed and let out a rough laugh.

“I knew you’d show up.” Wow. That almost sounded normal.

Peter stepped into Harry’s office like he was a mouse expecting to be stepped on. It was the exact opposite of his approach at work. Peter was very energetic, often forgetting that doors were things that could slam open as well as slam shut.

Harry looked Peter up and down, momentarily distracted. This was, hands down, the most casual he’d ever seen his executive assistant. He’d layered for the weather and was already taking off a jacket over his oversized hoodie. A beanie held on for dear life on his head, and a vicious looking hickey on his neck stood out like a neon sign. He looked so, so tired still, Harry noted sadly. Then the hickey took up the last of Harry’s brain power.

He closed the distance between them in three strides, whistling lowly. “Holy shit, you have a girlfriend?” Then, quickly, because he didn’t want to be a dick, “Boyfriend? Dude, I didn’t think you had a life outside of work.”

While tugging off his beanie, Peter shot him a gimlet stare. “And I was in the middle of it, on the couch, half-naked when you texted me.” Peter settled into the guest chair in front of Harry’s desk, rolling his neck. “Now I’m here, so let’s do this.” He learned forward, elbows on his knees with an expectant look on his face.

Leaning against the edge of his desk, Harry laughed, uncomfortable. Seeing Peter now was like seeing a teacher outside of school—just weird. Then, of course, there was also the faintest bit of amusement in seeing Peter wearing Harry’s-

A blazingly powerful headache hit him just then, like the Hulk was pinching his skull between two fingers. Not his not his not his, he reminded himself, grinding a palm into his eye. His thoughts scattered, jumping from the current moment to the memory of needles and a monstrous intruder.

It was the one thing he’d done right in all this, and he wasn’t gonna-

He’d take the blackouts and the pain and the screaming memories. He’d take that smug monster thinking he’d pinned his rival under his thumb-

But Harry was not Spider-Man, and no amount of interference was going to convince him otherwise. He didn’t care what the Green Goblin thought. He didn’t care what his- his _father_ -

No. Harry grimaced. No, he wasn’t going to think about that tonight. Or ever, preferably.

Thankfully, the headache eventually subsided. “It’s… nothing. I’m sorry. Go home.”

“And leave you to mope alone all weekend in your highrise office like a broody, stereotypical executive? Nope.”

Harry chuckled tiredly. Then, shrugging, he gave up. “I may have fucked things up with Gwen,” he confided, letting his hands fall away from his face. Of all the things he’d screwed up or let fall through the cracks, the only damage he couldn’t swallow was her.

“In which way?”

Harry didn’t respond right away, curling his hands around the desk, tightening and loosening them fitfully. He didn’t remember pushing her. But he sure as hell remembered running away. And for all his training and politicking and mastery of diplomatic overtures to pissed investors, Harry couldn’t figure out one way of saying ‘I attacked my girlfriend’ without wanting to jump out his own window.

So he didn’t. “You know, I’m kind of hurt that you’re not blindly arguing in my favor.”

“I may be your friend, but you’re kind of a hot mess.” Peter looked up briefly, making a vague circular motion. “Plus, your office echoes. I heard the message.” Harry winced. “So how did you screw things up?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m… just a hot mess. Just like you said.” His voice was dull.

Just then, his office lit up with a flash of light. Harry looked out at the sky to see that the clouds had finally released their threatened blanket of rain. Thick rivulets of it rolled down the glass, distorting Harry’s view of the city. His ears began to buzz as a cruel voice curled in his ear.

**_ITSY BITSY SPIDEY GOT CAUGHT OUT ON THE RAIN_ **

**_DOWN CAME THE GOBLIN AND SMASHED HIM DOWN AGAIN!_ **

Harry broke out into a cold sweat. Across the way, Peter squinting at him in concern. Swallowing, Harry unbuttoned the first one on his shirt and tried to breathe. There was no point crying over spilled milk. Just as there was no point agonizing over and rehashing something that happened months ago.

A distraction was in order. “So girlfriend? Boyfriend?” Harry grinned at Peter in a manic sort of way. “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you said. Or what you didn’t say.” He hopped up on his own desk, sitting on it fully. “So spill! Tell me about them. I want to know which lucky lady or lad did the impossible and got your attention.”

Peter seemed lost for a response. In this, in his hesitation and pinched expression, he looked more exhausted than before. Harry instantly felt bad for poking, for trying to mine Peter’s life for a deflection. It wasn’t Harry’s business, after all, and Peter had so little free time that it made Harry feel like a villain for even joking about it.

Harry had seen Peter’s schedules. He knew how full Peter’s plate was and, god, how much fuller Harry made it by insisting Peter keep an ear out for Jessica Jones’ alleged Oscorp slayings. He even knew about May Parker. He suspected a second job, regardless of Peter’s insistence it was just a hobby. Whatever, Harry wasn’t going to go to HR about it. Afterall, Peter was a genuinely hard worker and one of the few executive assistants that made Harry actually believe in the system.

He was a good man. And a sad one, especially recently. But he never took that out on people.

Harry had dug his own grave seven times over, but Peter never hurt anyone.

Harry’s forced grin disappeared in stages. “Pete, buddy. If you need to talk-” About anything, he was about to promise.

“He’s a guy,” Peter said flatly, interrupting him. “He’s a guy, and I like him, and you’re really not going to like who he is.”

Harry froze. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling as if he’d been given this bone only to deflect Harry from topics Peter really didn’t want to talk about. But for Harry, who was running on very few hours of sleep, this method was effective. He was, after all, genuinely curious.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Harry cajoled playfully. “Who are you screwing? Tony Stark?” Harry perked up at the thought, smirking. “Consorting with the enemy, eh, Pete? You dog, you.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Please, like your father wouldn’t be pleased as punch to have that kind of  in with Stark Industries.”

Yeah, what a helpful in that would be. Peter would quit on the spot. Peter was the poster boy for cause loyalty, the kind their HR onboarding process desperately tried—and failed—to replicate. But people mattered to him way more than companies, which was why he was such an effective executive assistant and such a _terrible_ corporate employee.

Norman had a short list of employees that he thought could break their NDAs at any time. Peter had the dubious honor of being number two on the list. There was more than one reason Norman had promoted him from basic administration to an executive assistant. Norman saw potential there—for greatness, yes. But for trouble too.

“Do I know him?”

“You know him.”

Harry rocked back on the desk and looked up at the ceiling, thinking. Peter was good to most people, but rarely friends with anyone. He wasn’t the kind of guy who had drinks with anyone after work—not even with Harry himself, who could be counted on to bring the good stuff. But there were a handful of board members who Peter seemed to genuinely like. He avoided most of the investors like they were the plague, but he was friendly with a handful of their researchers. Usually the lower level ones, though.

Peter’s curiosity and tendency to ask questions had made him some enemies in the research department early on. Even before Peter was assigned to him, Harry had tended to watch this carefully. The projects Peter had the most questions on were the projects that eventually failed. As much as Harry hated agreeing with his father, he was right. Harry saw that potential too.

Harry’s eyes wandered down from the ceiling. He scrutinized Peter again. Peter was absolutely _swimming_ in a hoodie three sizes too big, which wasn’t his normal way of dressing. He usually stuck within a size or two of his real fit, all store brand so they hung off him weirdly. Harry ached to get him his own tailored suit, but Peter threatened to submit his two week notice last time he offered.

So the hoodie had to belong to the boyfriend—but who was it? Harry knew of fairly few people that size. Peter wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t a large one.  He was the same height as Harry himself, actually. Broader across the shoulders a bit, but all in all, same size. Their sizes were so similar, Peter had been mistaken a few times from behind as Harry by people who didn’t know Harry very well.

He squinted at Peter, trying to imagine the size of the man who would fill out that hoodie better than the one who was wearing it now. Then all warmth leached from him when the obvious truth smacked him across the face.

“Fuck me, _Deadpool_?”

Peter didn’t immediately refute it. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck and looked away.

In disgust, Harry threw himself away from his desk, pacing instead in front of his window. He didn’t even know what to say, only-

This was another test. And Harry was failing it completely.

Deadpool had made his target clear from day one—he wanted Harry.

And Harry’s father had refused to shield him. No, Norman had taken this life or death situation as an organic test of his management skills. But Deadpool wasn’t some irate business partner or short-sighted bureaucrat. He was an assassin who had killed more people than Harry knew by name. Harry had sent out feelers everywhere, trying to figure out who this man was and why he had his sights set on Harry.

Harry hadn’t heard much. Not a peep from the black market about what kind of assignment this was. All he’d heard was that Deadpool was trying to reinvent himself, but had a short attention span and a high tendency for murderous, bloody relapse. Oh, and he loved money.

So Harry had tried to distract him instead, dangling dollar signs and promises of high wages and bonuses through his junior executives. But Deadpool hadn’t shown any interest in that. He’d wanted Harry, and he had been prepared to sit in the lobby and wait with all the other schmucks until Harry came down and met with him.

There was no way their stocks would have survived such a thing. Fearing his father more than Deadpool, Harry had instead encouraged his junior executives to drag Deadpool into the building where he couldn’t be seen by the public. There, he had been offered bigger and better deals, retirement plans, the whole nine yards… if only he’d turn his loyalty to Oscorp. Only then, Harry had figured, he could get Deadpool to renege on whatever assignment he’d taken out against Harry in the first place.

For a while, it had seemed to work. Deadpool hadn’t bitten on any of the lucrative deals coming his way, but he’d seemed to perversely enjoy stressing out Harry’s people during the negotiations of it. He’d also seemed weirdly fascinated by corporate culture. By now, it was almost expected that Deadpool would come and sit in on a meeting or two, round-eyed and fascinated by the standard business workflow. In the beginning, complaints had poured into his inbox by the day about the disruption and potential corporate espionage, but within a month, most of his people had settled. Adapted. Started seeing Deadpool as a twisted office mascot.

Deadpool had even started taking short-term contracts with them: Low-threat asset recovery assignments. He’d only accepted about one out of every twenty Harry would draft up for him, but it was progress.

And all the while, Harry had never once seen Deadpool face-to-face. Even when he would head to a place where Deadpool was known to be, Deadpool would be gone, having left seconds ago, as if he too had not wanted to break the stalemate of the horrible game they were playing. Like maybe he too had been dreading as much as Harry about ending the farce and executing the terms of his original assignment.

After so many months of this, Harry had become complacent. He’d started relaxing a bit, even seeing the humor in this. Deadpool was a deadly assassin by trade, and they were basically playing a game of peekaboo. Harry had even started to feel a little proud of himself. After all, he had managed to keep Deadpool off his back for almost a full year.

His father hadn’t agreed. “When he has you cornered, what happens? What juvenile stunt will you pull then?”

Norman had been right. One of these days, he was going to walk into his office only to find the infamous merc in Harry’s chair with his feet propped up on Harry’s desk. 

Except that day was today, and Deadpool was going through Peter first.

God, he had thought Deadpool’s interest in Peter was a _rumor_. Office gossip. A salacious distraction. Peter had never complained, never mentioned it, never-

Sudden rage hit him like a heart attack. Harry stopped pacing, clutching a hand over his chest. It was hard to choke down, and it only seemed to grow. His skin itched madly and his hair felt like it was going to fly out of his skull like spikes. Last time he felt like this-

A woman on the street. Gwen’s shocked eyes. Bloody hands. _I love you._

The rage whooshing out of him with a sigh, making him feel like a fraction of the person he used to be. He rubbed at his eyes, pushing back the heat, the helplessness, and the drowning feeling that he’d fucked everything up past fixing.

“Harry?” Peter was standing, hand reaching out to him. There was a wary edge to him—stance wide and knees bent. Like he was ready to run. Harry stared at him unblinkingly for a moment. Peter’s hand fell between them.

“If he’s messing with you -” Harry said, voice raw. He shook his head, starting again. “Say the word, and he’ll never be allowed to enter Oscorp again.” Harry would figure something out. Confront him, if he had to.

Peter’s stance was easing by the moment—shoulders first, then torso. Knees. Legs. But his eyebrows remained firmly needled together. “Deadpool is a good person. You don’t know him like I do.”

Harry snorted. Right.

He made a fist of his twitching fingers, agonizing, again, over what Deadpool’s employers wanted him dead or silenced over. Harry jay walked, fibbed on his taxes, and got speeding tickets like most people. He didn’t have a burning secret that would make him a target. He wasn’t even a good target to try and get something from Oscorp itself. Norman had made his stance on that _very clear_ , even leaving a six year old Harry with a kidnapper for three weeks once. Not a single red cent was earned.

Harry didn’t have any secrets, damnit.

Harry lifted his head. Except-

The woman in Jessica’s photograph.

A lie he told to get the pain to stop.

**I SHOULD HAVE SMOTHERED YOU AT BIRTH.**

A blind eye he turned on the actions of a man who should have been stopped years ago.

Harry was gripped by a cold, awful fear. Did Deadpool know what he knew? Did Deadpool know the secret Harry kept?

“Harry?” Peter said gently.

Harry rubbed his sweating palms against his knees. “I have to process this a little. Boring Pete Parker and the most infamous merc on the black market. I mean, what the fuck. How does it even work?”

“It just… does.” Almost to himself, Peter muttered, “That’s what worries me.”

Me too, Harry thought but didn’t say. He darted a quick look at Peter, suddenly worried for a different reason. Lover or not, Peter would absolutely stand in the way of Deadpool’s assignment. Peter was a stubborn asshole when he thought he was right, the kind of person who dug his heels in against a tornado. Deadpool wasn’t well known for being someone who was patient and understanding when someone stood in the way of his payday.

Goddamnit. If this went on any further, he was going to lose the best friend he’d ever had.

 

-

 

Peter dozed. While he dozed, a man sung softly above him, raspy voice tugging the lyrics along adoringly. “ _At last, my love has come along._ ”

The song didn’t penetrate. He tipped his head slightly and continued to snooze. Peter had perfected sleeping in a tight ball when he’d been evicted and homeless for a few weeks. Even at his most charming, he hadn’t always been able to secure a couch. On those nights, he’d find himself a good corner on a good roof. He’d sit down—out of the wind, if he could—arms crossed under his hoodie, knees brought up to his chest in a way that maximized heat and minimized visibility. Once perfectly situated, Peter was out in seconds and would only wake up if someone approached him. It was foolproof.

“ _The lonely days are over. And life is like a song_.”

So color him surprised when, years later, he woke up groggy instead of alert, preoccupied with the feeling of hands stroking through his hair. He pressed into it like a touch-starved cat, blinking slowly in the dim light of the hallway outside of Deadpool’s apartment.

Deadpool was standing above him, still singing under his breath. He had one hand loosely tangled in Peter’s hair, leather gloves rubbing against Peter’s skull soothingly. The other was sticking the key in the door, twisting as the cantankerous knob refused to yield.

Peter felt weirdly content like this, almost ready to go back to sleep, but his brain was struggling to place Deadpool’s song. “Why do you keep singing me the oldies?” he asked finally, voice hoarse.

The door swung open. “Not my fault the people from the sixties are the only ones who really, truly understood love, baby boy.” With that, Wade bent at the hip and gallantly offered him an elbow. Peter took it, stumbling to his feet, and followed Wade inside the apartment. He’d forgotten his key.

But more importantly, he’d remembered the loot. “Tacos,” he announced tiredly, lifting his grease lined bag.

Wade yipped in giddy glee, pressing a masked kiss to Peter’s cheek—too much fanfare for dollar tacos, Peter thought. He took the bag from Peter and skipped it over to the kitchen.

He kept humming that song, frustratingly enough. His other serenade attempts usually had Peter blanking, not recognizing the melody, but this one almost sounded familiar, like he’d heard it at least once.

Ugh. Whatever. Peter let himself have a break on that. He yawned and pressed his back against the front door, automatically locking it behind him.

In front of him, though, the song had finally trailed off. In the kitchen, Wade staring at him intensely. When Peter stared back, blinking sleepily, Wade chuckled roughly, ditching the tacos.

“You are hell on my workflow productivity,” he commented cheerfully. He dropped his utility belt on the ground in the kitchen and began walking towards Peter with intent.

A little more awake now at such a predatory stalk, Peter just ducked under his arm, skipping away. “Says the guy who regularly interrupts me at work to jerk off in the supply closet.”

“You love it,” Wade hissed, grinning. He lifted his palms. “I’ll be good.” His grin was too big under his mask. Peter wasn’t sure if he should trust him.

He decided to anyway. “I’m sorry, I’m early.” Peter couldn’t stay much longer with Harry, not with his senses screaming at him. They were quieter now, falling to the comfortable buzz they normally were at with Wade.

It was like Peter understood on a biological level that there was some part of Wade always willing to fight. But he just couldn’t understand on any level why Harry was lighting up all sorts of red flags to Peter’s anxious Spidey brain. In the end, Peter couldn’t spend more than thirty minutes with the guy without wanting to launch himself at the ceiling and speed crawl away.

Harry wasn’t a violent person. Not even remotely. But today he was unsettling. Twitchy. Out of control. Hell, Peter would have assumed he was on drugs if Harry wasn’t one of those obnoxious people who treated his body like a temple. No MSG, no processed food, and absolutely no drugs.

And Peter never found out what the hell happened with Gwen.

Maybe he should call her. Neither Gwen nor Harry had given him Gwen’s number, but he had it nevertheless. It was in his job description to be nosy, after all.

But it was wet. It was a Saturday. And Peter was tired. He longed for sleep, and Wade’s apartment had long since become a place of relaxation and comfort in Peter’s strained mind. Even Wade’s couch was way more comfortable than his tiny twin at his own apartment, and Wade’s blankets were fantastic.

“Even though I’m early, I don’t have to interrupt you,” Peter said. He checked his watch. They still had forty-five minutes left of their three hour block.

“Hm. It’s not that. You’re fine.” Wade was frowning though, so how fine could Peter be? “I just didn’t want to show you the unsexy underbelly of my work.” Humming that song again, he walked back into the kitchen to retrieve some tacos.

Peter wasn’t hungry. He sat on the couch, mind drifting back to Gwen and Harry again. What had happened was a mystery Harry hadn’t been keen on sharing, though Peter bet the gossip rags had something to say about it.

And that was the thing too—Gwen and Harry were awfully different people. That they adored each other was clear. Harry loved Gwen for 101 reasons, and Gwen loved Harry for many, many reasons beyond the fact that Harry was a handsome, successful businessman. Peter never doubted that. But Gwen and Harry’s priorities were often at odds.

For example, from the get-go, Harry wanted to take Gwen to all high-profile Oscorp functions. He wanted the world to see the woman he loved. But Gwen refused. More concerned about what that might mean for her research position at Oscorp if she was seen as being too close to Harry, Gwen had her eye on other prizes. Instead, she wanted to bring him home to meet her parents. But _Harry_ refused. He didn’t see how Gwen’s parents had the right at all to cast judgments on their relationship, especially if those judgements would result in them breaking up. They were adults, Harry argued. The only opinions that mattered about their relationship were their own—missing, of course, that maybe Gwen had people in her life she wanted to see the man she loved too.

It was maddening. Wade and Peter’s differences were far more extreme, but if Peter asked Wade to come and meet May, he would do it in a heartbeat. Same thing with the obligatory Oscorp galas and mixers—Wade would have a blast. In a lot of ways, Peter and Wade’s relationship was a lot simpler than Harry and Gwen’s. The only layer of complication was the one Peter slathered on every time he opened his mouth. Or when he closed it, biting down secrets he knew he could trust Wade with.

“Sleepy boy,” Wade purred behind him. Peter’s Spidey sense didn’t give him a blip of warning, not even when Wade buried his mask in Peter’s hair. A broad hand slid down Peter’s chest and stomach. For a moment, Peter wondered if Wade was breaking his promise to be good, but Wade seemed content just to touch him, leaning over the back of the couch like that.

“I’m distracting you,” Peter muttered. “Ignore me.”

“No. I can’t. You’re irresistible. It’s the pheromones. _It’s canon!_ ” He whined when Peter pushed his face away. “It’s a Saturday. It can fucking wait until tomorrow.” He made grabby hands at Peter.

Peter changed his mind, hooking his fingers through the loops that normally held his katanas. He tugged sharply on them, bending Wade over the couch so much, Wade was almost in his lap. “Wade,” he said firmly. “Finish what you started. And then cuddle with me on the couch.” He leaned in, pressing his mouth close to Wade’s ear. He whispered, “Then take me to bed.”

A moment later, he pushed Wade back on his side of the couch, ignoring Wade’s pinwheeling arms as he fought to maintain his balance. Behind him, Wade was swearing and muttering, clearly peeved by the evolution in this topic of discussion. Peter fought hard not to smirk. Wade would see it as a challenge.

Finally, Wade shuffled away, but not before he dropped the gentlest kiss on Peter’s head.

Peter should take a shower. So, yawning, he did just that. Rooting around in his overnight bag, arms full of Wade’s stolen pajamas, Peter briefly considered making a few more calls to the other superheroes in the city. No, he decided. He was done with that. In a fit of rebellion, Peter shoved his burner phone deep into the recesses of the bag.

The subsequent shower was long, warm, comfortable, and uninterrupted by spiraling doubts.

Peter got dressed again in a pair of sweatpants and a Hello Kitty shirt. After a second thought, he impishly tied his tie around his wrist. Not to get too cocky, but they had started something interesting on the couch earlier that day. If Peter had any luck, they’d finish it.

Peter could hear Wade in the other room walking and talking to himself, arguing. Retreating back to the couch, Peter turned on the television, tuning him out, and curled on his side on the couch for another nap.

He woke up again two hours later when his personal phone rang. It was 10pm, and the apartment was just a bit darker. He pawed at the phone blindly, bringing the screen close to his face to see who was calling him.

It was May. May was never awake past 8:30.

He sat up quickly, answering the call. “What’s wrong,” he barked out. He could be dressed in ten minutes. In Queens in forty—twenty if he took his suit. “What do you need? I’ll be there. May!”

“It’s- uh. It’s your uncle Ben.”

Peter sat there, stock still. The panic eased away, but a different pain settled in. In the bathroom, Wade was cheerfully singing about butts at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing. On the TV, an infomercial peddled unnecessary wares with pratfalls and butterfingers. Behind him, rain hit the window at a steady clip, reminding him of a night long ago full of disappointed heroes, interrupted agency, and a stab in the back from the most unlikely source.

Normally, thinking of the night Ben (and Iron Man) wrecked the earning potential of the Spider was enough to light a fire in his belly. But tonight, that fire was an ember. Ben sounded so old. When had he gotten so old?

Peter could barely breathe. He wanted to hang up. He should hang up. He _deserved_ to hang up. The case creaked warningly under Peter’s tightening grip.

Somewhere in the shower, Wade made the executive decision to switch from Sir Mix a Lot to Shania Twain, really putting the twang in country. Peter could suddenly breathe again, so he did.

He didn’t hang up.

“Hi Ben.”

“Hi Peter.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment. When Ben didn’t continue, Peter ground his knuckle in the center of his eyebrows, biting the bullet. “Been a while. What do you need?”

Ben seemed even less equipped to handle this conversation than Peter. “Nothing, I- May’s fine, by the way. I shouldn’t have-”

“You got me on the phone this time,” Peter interrupted quietly.

Peter could hear Ben nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I just… wanted to talk to you.”

“Well. I’m here.”

There was another long pause. Then, thankfully, Ben broke it. “Right. So. That boy May says you work with. Did he really say he was Spider-Man on television?”

It was about the last question Peter expected from Ben, especially at 10pm at night _years_ after they’d stopped talking to each other. He didn’t figure his estranged uncle would be as invested in Spidey’s identity as everyone else. It was a bit of a letdown.

“Yeah, he did that.” Much to Peter’s annoyance.

“Then you’re in trouble, and so is he,” Ben said grimly. Peter froze at the concise summary. “I was thinking about it, and… If anyone took that boy seriously, anyone at all-”

Peter straightened. “I’ll keep him safe.”

“ _That’s what I’m worried about._ ” Ben huffed out an annoyed noise. “See, I had a dream tonight. Horrible thing, this dream. It was another press conference like that one, and your boy was speaking—except he may have been the President, and you were behind him, dressed like a Secret Services person?” Ben paused. “I know, it doesn’t make sense.”

Peter snorted with helpless amusement. Dreams were weird. “Go on.”

“This man in the audience stood up and was talking, and then he pulled out a gun and shot him, your coworker. Except he didn’t shoot him because _you_ were there and _you_ pushed him out of the way and _you_ -” Ben sucked in a shaking breath. “I woke up, terrified, realizing… I don’t even have your number! What if something happened?”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… May’s my emergency contact. You would have heard about it.” Eventually.

“That’s not what I meant, Peter, and you know it.”

Yeah. Yeah, Peter did know it. His face screwed up. “Do we have to have this conversation on the phone?”

“Can’t we?” Ben asked, voice hushed. “Or is the relationship between us too damaged to fix?”

“You tell me,” Peter fired back, heat flushing under his face. “You’re the one who-”

“Peter, I didn’t make it easy on you. But _you’re_ the one who left and cut ties.” Ben let out a low, measured breath. Then, calmer, he said, “So can we have this conversation over the phone or not? Your call.”

Peter found himself nodding—once, twice, three times. He wanted to be cold, cavalier. Maybe even business-like and transactional. Instead, he hunched in on himself, hand cupping over his eyes even though there was no one to see him.

It was very, very hard to keep his voice steady. “You never trusted me to help with May. It hurts, Ben. Never stopped.”

Ben didn’t respond for a while. But when he did, his voice was exceedingly gentle, like he heard all that Peter was trying to hide. “If that’s how you interpreted that, then I didn’t explain myself well enough. But even if I did…” Ben sighed. “I’m sorry, son. You did exactly what I asked of you, what I’ve always asked you to do, and I punished you for it.”

Peter sucked in a breath too high-pitched not to be what it was—a sob—and Ben shushed him caringly, calming him like he used to when an eight-year-old Peter used to wake the house up with his nightmares. Tear ran hot and quick down Peter’s face, faster than he could push them away.

“I just… May and I aren’t going to be around forever. I didn’t want you to chain yourself to us so young, and have nothing left for yourself at the end of the day.”

“You’re my family, Ben,” Peter countered wetly. “You can’t expect me to not want to save her life. Regardless of anyone’s life expectancy.”

“Typical Parker,” Ben said with a familiar warm chuckle. “Do you hate me for what I did? You can. I would.”

Peter rapidly shook his head. “Never. Never hated you.”

“Can we get past this? Will you visit us? Your aunt and I, we’re free this weekend.”

Oh no. If Ben was asking him to come over, then he hadn’t talked to May yet and didn’t know about the promise she’d extracted from him to bring home Wade. Which meant May probably hadn’t told Ben about the cancer yet. Tears ran down his face even faster. Oh, Ben.

“Yeah, I’ll visit. But not- not this weekend. But maybe next weekend? Harry’s going through some stuff. I want to make sure I’m close by.” And give May a little more time to come clean with her husband.

“You’re a good friend, Peter.”

“Not really,” Peter said thickly, wiping his face clean. He hastily changed the subject. “But don’t worry about the press conference thing. That was weeks and weeks ago. No one took it seriously.” Then, unable to help himself, he said, “Besides, if something happened to Harry, Spidey would step in and help too.”

“I bet he would.” Ben sounded amused for a moment. Then he went quiet.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked earnestly. “Do you need to talk some more? I can distract you if the nightmare is still bothering you.”

“No, it’s okay. It was a very odd and upsetting dream.” Ben hesitated, then blurted out, “Would you believe me if I said that Osborn kid was the shooter and the victim?

“That’s it, buster,” Peter teased tentatively. “No more scifi shows before bedtime for you.”

“Aw, hell, Peter. I know I’m reading too much into it. But you know it’d kill us if you got hurt,” Ben said. “No, you go on to bed. I’ll do the same. Just…” Ben paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Take care of your friend. But take care of you too.”

Peter and Ben said their goodbyes. Peter let his phone fall out of his limp hand, feeling the world shift. It was the same living room. Same television. Same cream paint on the wall. After talking to Ben, Peter felt good in a way he hadn’t for a while, like some perpetually clenched muscle had loosened.

But with it came dread. How did Ben put it? _Then you’re in trouble, and so is he._

Peter rubbed his hot face. Then he stood.

There was something deeply wrong with Harry. Fortunately, life had put Peter on a collision course with maybe the one other person in New York hyperfixated on Harry Osborn. Maybe if Peter figured out what Wade’s angle on Harry was, he’d be able to figure out his own. Besides, Deadpool was always good for a team up.

Wade owned a two-bedroom apartment, which Peter always thought was weird. Wade never struck him as someone who’d be roomies with anyone. Peter never snooped when he was alone, but he figured he would have stumbled on them by now if there was one. Anyway, what he did know was that Wade claimed the smaller bedroom for his personal use. There wasn’t much in there—just a bed in an almost greedy size, a stack of unopened boxes propping up a lamp, a rickety dresser with a dent in the side, and an absurd amount of condoms and lube piled up under the lamp.

With a blush, Peter closed the door to Wade’s bedroom quietly, moving on to the next.

The bigger bedroom, in contrast, was almost bare. The perpetually open closet was bursting at the seams with Deadpool suits. Peter touched a few of them curiously, unable to help himself. In the back of the bedroom, a long, large wooden table held the many pieces of a disassembled sniper rifle, as well as many of its bullet friends.

There was an old armchair too. It may have been plush once, but time (and weather? Activities?) had not been kind to it. There was a brownish-maroon tint to it that, judging by the blue fabric towards the legs, was not the manufacturer’s intention. It smelled like death and copper and it made his Spidey senses balk.

Peter slowly turned his back to it, though it was hard. A moment later, Peter was thoroughly distracted, because on the other wall was an investigation board.

It took up an entire wall, and the thumb tacking and yarn patterning were extensive. “Unsexy underbelly, huh?” Peter muttered to himself. So this was what Wade was working on.

Feeling a little overwhelming—and out of his league—Peter stepped closer, trying to find a cohesive story.

The first thing he saw out of the ordinary was the yarn tied into a heart and strung between a Deadpool sticker and crumpled edition of the Daily Bugle. Peter carefully smoothed the paper out with his fingers: SPIDER-MAN—UNMASKED? Peter snorted. The Daily Bugle hadn’t been the only paper to jump the gun and take Harry’s flippant remark as gospel truth. It was just the only one that kept it up. They were even using an old photo he took as part of his many brief side jobs when he was younger.

Ah, to be young and stupid enough to sell your own selfies. When he found out J. Jonah Jameson would pay for exclusive rights with a mere fraction of what Peter expected, and that no one else wanted pictures of his other half, he abandoned the job immediately. He’d only sold fifty photos, and those same fifty photos were still in circulation. For this piece, it seemed like J. Jonah Jameson had whipped out the one Peter took outside of the Oscorp building to build his case against Harry.

Peter briefly toyed with the yarn heart for a moment, not sure what it meant. Then he moved on.

The documentation Wade had gathered was extensive. There were everything from Oscorp press itineraries to scrawled notes in Wade’s handwriting to photos of random people Peter barely recognized. There was even a picture of himself, looking up at the camera with a suspicious squint, a bagel hanging from his mouth. It was obviously taken months before Peter made enough money to wear matching suits to work. It wasn’t Peter’s most flattering photo, but there were pink hearts drawn all over. On top of that, the word **CUTIE** was written under it in the same pink pen, underlined twice.

Even as he grinned goofily at it, Peter noted that there wasn’t a single thread connecting him to the rest.

There were a lot of threads connecting things to pictures of Harry instead, even some things that Harry was expressly very secretive about—like the fact that he was a giant kid about superheroes and adored them very much. Harry’s somewhat embarrassing hero worship, cosplaying, and other fannish activities weren’t unknown to Peter, but Deadpool had gotten himself an actual picture somehow. Because there he was, dressed as Spider-Man in some sort of subway. His mask was off and his face was almost turned away from the camera. But it was undoubtedly him. That jawline and posture was so clearly Harry, even though his face was tilted away and his hair was a jarring, fluffy blond. He had a trophy clasped between both of his hands, and a female Wolverine cosplayer leaning into him, clearly flirting.

All around this photo, threads of yarn stretched to countless court cases and newspaper clippings and press releases—and, try as he might, Peter just didn’t see the connection.

But the threads led to something that snapped up all of Peter’s attention—the Green Goblin. Peter wasn’t expecting to see that nightmare mask here, but there he was, connected not just to Harry, but to Oscorp documentations as well. Specifically, red string was tied damningly, and with precision, to one good photo the press had of the Green Goblin in flight. Everything from the bomb he held in his hand to the hoverboard he was perched on to the suit he was wearing was tied to a specific project.

In between the large cluster of Harry documents and the smaller cluster for the Green Goblin was a yellow Post-It note smack dab in the middle. In black sharpie, Wade had scratched out, with double arrows, **TOTAL HATE BONER**.

Peter pondered on that for a while. It slowly started to make sense. Sure, he wanted to know why Wade thought Gobby hated Harry, but if the Green Goblin was taking gear from Oscorp projects on the downlow like Wade thought, then Harry would be his biggest adversary. Harry had headed up a massive investigation during year one of his employment at Oscorp, getting rid of inside traders and double dealers. The criminals had lost millions of dollars and gained a lot jail time.

The Green Goblin—and whoever was helping him—could stand to lose and gain a lot more if this got out.

Feeling a headache start to come on, Peter looked away, eyes catching on several missing persons reports and an old newspaper clipping of the Defenders. He clapped a hand against those familiar six names—Dana Smith. Terry Smith. Samantha Takahashi. Laura Santiago. Omar Williams. Richard Lee.

But Wade had also found three more—missing, not confirmed dead. These names, and the names of the Oscorp murders were tied to specific projects that were feeding into the equipment of the Green Goblin.

That cinched it. One more nail in the coffin of Harry’s assertion about Oscorp’s neutrality in this. _Good job, Wade._

It made so much sense now. Harry had said that Jessica implied that all the victims were whistleblowers, that they had caught on to wrongdoings of the company. But what if they didn’t? Gobby clearly had fingers in these projects somehow. What if instead of finding wrongdoing, they had just come in at the wrong time and seen that nightmarish mask at their workstation, stealing Oscorp’s products for his own gain? The Green Goblin had set an apartment complex on fire to freak out the Four. Peter didn’t put it past him to kill a few people and drop them in the river to hide his tracks.

_Wow, Wade,_ Peter thought, impressed. If Deadpool ever turned his brain on Peter, Spider-Man would be outed in a day. Maybe even less. After all, Peter literally carried his suit over to Wade’s home on a weekly basis, if not more. He wasn’t hiding things—at least, not as well as the Green Goblin. Or the Green Goblin’s accomplice. This had to be an inside job. Gobby had his hand in too many projects. He knew too much. He had someone helping.

And this was why Harry needed to get involved, pronto. Maybe even why Wade wanted to talk to Harry in the first place?

But then why wait? Yes, wait _a little_ to collect evidence and make your case—Wade had developed a very good case here—but why wait this long to meet with Harry? Did the waiting serve another purpose? Was Wade trying to spook the accomplice? Or was Wade waiting on someone else to make the first move? If he was expecting Harry to do it, he was going to have to wait another year. Harry avoided Deadpool like the plague.

Peter’s face screwed up in annoyance. No. He wanted to get to the bottom of the Green Goblin connection. He wanted to get to the bottom of the murders, and he couldn’t if everything was locked in this stalemate, neither one of them approaching the other.

This was stupid. Whatever their issue with each other was, it had to stop. Peter could solve this once and for all.

Hearing the shower finally turn off, Peter marched outside of the bedroom, mind whirling a mile a minute.

“Hey, Wade,” Peter said distractedly. “I have a bone to pick with you about Harry-”

Wade let out a little noise. It was a harsh noise—wet too, like being gutted. Startled, Peter’s eyes shot up and to the open bathroom door, still pouring out steam. They met shatteringly with wide, terrified brown eyes set in a familiar, yet unfamiliar face.

Peter suddenly became aware of every bare inch of scarred flesh on display.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Seconds ticked like hours. Any warmth Wade felt from the shower vanished in an instant.

He’d been so careful too, or so he thought, double checking that Peter was as conked out on the couch as he looked. Sliding on leather in a steamy bathroom on wet, warped skin was about as fun as it sounded. He’d wanted to sneak past Petey like a guilty, deformed naked mole rat, get himself presentable for company, and take Petey up on his offer to cuddle.

So simple, he thought. So easy.

But there Peter was, upright, wide-eyed, and pretty. There Wade was, upright, wide eyed. Not so pretty. He might as well drop the towel and let Peter feast his eyes on the full devastation that was Wade’s body.

_Fuck._ Wade sucked in a wheezing, slightly hysterical breath. He had such a good thing going too, a holy grail of a boyfriend who was okay with his past, okay with him being the kind of freak who crawls into bed wearing a full leather suit, okay with him being the kind of fuckup that made other fuck ups look like superstars. And now-

And now Peter was closing the space between them in lurching, hesitant steps, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. Wade stared at him hopelessly, memorizing every bit of his boy like it was the last time he’d ever see him—and shit, it might be. Because Peter’s eyes were wide, surprise written on his face like sharpie. His hair was sticking every which way. He had a crease on his cheek from the couch cushion, and, wildly, Wade wondered if he could convince his grumpy boy that this was just a weird sequence of a horrible nightmare. Wade’s nightmare, obviously. Peter was just sharing it.

But Peter’s eyes stopped wandering, meeting—and freezing—directly on Wade’s own. “Hi Wade,” he said finally, clearly dumbfounded.

“Hi Wade,” Wade echoed in a small voice, clearly just dumb. He felt like he was breathing in glass—tiny, slicing, bitter, sharp. He wanted to cry.

Peter’s faint smile was fading, like maybe his little genius control freak was picking up the vibes Wade was throwing off at full volume. Peter stretched out a hand to his. He hesitated, fingertips inches from Wade’s bare and thickly scarred wrist. Then he bit his lip, the pads of his fingers sliding across the back of Wade’s left hand, curling gently and pressing into the underside of his palm.

“Wade?” he said tentatively, voice full of questions and confusions and concern—and absolutely none of the disgust Wade expected.

And suddenly, Wade could breathe again. He hunched forward, leaning hopelessly closer to Peter. Comforting hands slid from his elbows to his shoulders, a familiar gesture, one Wade ached to press into—and he did. For a moment.

Then he was shaking off Peter’s hands, chuckling darkly as his mouth twisted into something uglier. “Wade. Wade.” He slid rough palms over Peter’s cheeks, pressing the pads of his thumbs against his thin skin. “I know who I am. But who the hell are you?”

Angry suddenly, he willed Peter to react to him—to stop ignoring the ruin so close to his face. He wanted Peter to flinch. Scream. Yell. Vomit. Something. But Peter was just staring at him, and not in a gawking way. His attention bounced, like most people’s did when faced with another naked person, but it shot back immediately to Wade’s eyes—always his eyes.

“Peter Parker,” his grumpy boy said finally. His hands curled around Wade’s wrists loosely, rubbing soothingly against his pulse.

And like that, Wade was stumped. “What?”

Peter’s eyebrows needled together in confusion. “You asked-”

Stupid boy. Beautiful boy. Smart boy. _Best boy_. Wade kissed him with everything he had, everything he couldn’t translate to his hands. The anger. The fear. The sadness.

After a beat, Peter shoved back, giving as good as he got. Wade stumbled back under the force of it, towel dropping to the ground between them as they parted. But Peter followed him, curling his hands over Wade’s bare skull, and Wade shivered, knees weakening briefly.

Wade’s back hit the wall outside of the bathroom as Peter kissed him again and again. He twisted his fists in Peter’s collar restlessly, torn between pushing Peter away and dragging him closer. But the fake conflict in his mind was revealed as the basic bitch that it was when Peter pulled away himself, breaking their connection. Wade whined, annoyed.

But Peter was frowning unhappily. “You know me.” Strangely, of all the shit that was happening to Pete (and Wade was so _happening_ to him), that was the thing that upset Peter?

“Not enough,” Wade said thickly, because it was true. Peter looked worried for a second, and Wade took advantage of his distress, flipping them around until Peter was pushed back against the wall. Wade pressed into him, every inch of his body plastered against Peter’s front. Then he curled both hands under Peter’s thighs, lifting him. 

“You can get off this ride any time, sweetheart,” Wade said, a fraction of his usual cockiness swarming back at Peter’s blown-wide pupils, the red flush that took over his face, and the way he chewed at his bottom lip like he always did when his mind was living in the gutter. Despite everything, this… and them… it felt normal.

Then out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the reflection of his shiny trash can. He turned to look, seeing nothing but a grotesque stretched out image of Frankenstein’s monster hauling around a very beautiful boy. Wade froze, his heart dropping. His stomach churned as reality reasserted itself.

Wade laughed hollowly, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t like me,” he said thickly. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t get you.” Then, because Wade was never a good guy, he ripped off Peter’s pants and took him anyway.

In hindsight, Wade knew he could count off at least twenty romps in the sheets that were not the best for his mental health. Wade had been with some fucked up people in the past, and some not fucked up people who were nevertheless in a fucked up situation. But this one, he felt, could have easily been right up there. In that very moment, he was absolutely convinced it was number fucking one.

Because it had never been like this between them before. Wade had never been this rough, this quick, this thoughtless and desperate and rude and fucking selfish. His only saving grace was the fact that Peter was with him the whole time, pressing and receptive and present, complicit in his own violation. He wanted to mark and touch and ruin Peter, and _Peter was letting him._

By the time Wade was sliding into Peter, he’d walked them away from the wall and set Peter on the counter in his kitchen. He’d shoved Peter’s t-shirt up under his arms and was hunched over, biting and licking at pale skin and a fragile collarbone. Peter was tight, achingly so.

Even as Wade greedily snapped his hips forward, he knew he should have prepped him more. He should have treated him like the precious person he was. But Wade couldn’t even let go long enough to fetch the lube–the good kind, the expensive kind he’d sprung for just for Peter. No, Peter was the one who found the olive oil.

Wade’s want for Peter was vicious, desperate, and ugly. His usual desire and lust for Peter was like a burning rope. But right then, it was like that rope had been doused with gasoline, and Wade had to have him before they both got burned.

So Wade took and he took and he took.

Then Peter cried out, unexpectedly wrapped all four limbs around him with breathtaking strength—literally. All of the air was forced out of Wade’s lungs, and insanely, this only triggered Wade. He slammed into Peter one more time, his orgasm ripped out of him with meat hooks. 

And with it, Wade felt none of the usual joy that came with fucking Peter. Instead, he felt pathetic, wretched. Like the foul piece of walking, talking trash he always feared he’d become. But out of this muck, he found himself wobbling upward, out of himself and his head, to the feeling of Peter kissing his cheek, chin, and under both eyes.

Wade stared at Peter like a man unused to sunlight. “Either you’re a freak or something in you is broken,” Wade said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t want to touch me.” Wade was already shaking. Here Peter was, showering him with affection when all Wade did was grunt fuck him into a counter like an animal.

Peter pulled Wade’s head closer. Their foreheads pressed into each other and they shared air. “Whatever’s going on in your head, Wade,” Peter whispered, “we can deal with it together.”

Wade was already nodding, a restless gesture made before Peter could even finish his sentence. He believed it. Peter always made things better. “The only thing I want in my head is you.”

For that painful admission, Peter kissed Wade again and did his best to remind Wade what it felt like to be cared for. And, for the time being, it worked.

Closer to dawn, Wade stared up at the bedroom ceiling. His torn top sheet was kicked lazily to the foot of his bed, curling around his feet. Next to him, Peter was flat on his stomach, dozing. He was taking up more space than he usually did, and his hand had crossed the bed, his palm flat against Wade’s chest. Wade played with it idly, rubbing it and tangling his fingers with Peter’s own.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he muttered to the ceiling.

As quiet as he was, the noise was enough to rouse Peter. He stirred, turning his head towards Wade. Wade got another up-close view of those deep brown eyes framed by long dark lashes. They flickered open at him, clear. On their heels was a small, almost shy smile.

“Hey,” Wade said, surprised.

“Hey.”

“You’re not even-” Wade didn’t know what to choke over first—the fact that Peter apparently was an ultra-light sleeper this whole time, or the fact that Peter’s first instinct upon seeing him in the morning was to _smile_. He went with the second one. “Normally, this sort of thing would be startling.”

Peter arched an eyebrow at him. He propped his head up on his hand. “Your dick was very startling.”

Odin save him from badly flirting twinks. “Not that. By, you know-” Wade made a jabbing, stabbing motion at his everything.

Peter stared at him for a long moment before sighing. “Wade. As much as it pains me to admit this…” He hesitated, drawing a circle in the fitted sheet between them with his finger, brow furrowed.

Wade tensed. _Here we go_ , he thought. Break up time. _It’s not you, it’s me_. Or _it’s so you_. Or _I got a better offer from a guy with a bigger bank account and a better looking body_. Or even _I suddenly am moving out of the country—and no, I don’t do distance relationships_.

“I, um. I follow your Instagram?”

The pain was real. “What?”

Peter looked even more aggravated. “Yeah. I’ve been following it for three years.” When Wade didn’t react, his head shot up, his eyes wide and earnest. “ _Don’t laugh_.”

A more mature person would have moved past this. Wade was not that person. “ _What?_ ” Wade said again. This time, he drew it into seventeen syllables. He was grinning madly—this was the single greatest thing that had _ever_ happened to him.

Peter sighed and sat up, standing with only the slightest hitch. He left the room—and Wade—behind, but before Wade could read too much into it, Peter padded back in, cell phone in hand. He was typing away at something. “Yeah, so I follow you. Sue me. And it hasn’t been a smooth road either. You take more selfies than a sixteen year old prom queen trying to build an internet brand. And you post a _ton_ of illegal stuff, by the way-”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Wade said, cocky. 

“I was getting there,” Peter said, crabby about it. Or pretending at it, which was the only explanation for why he slipped back into Wade’s arms, kittenish and greedy for warmth. He pushed his phone into Wade’s hands.

Despite his sincere need to _tease the shit out of his boy_ , Wade’s eyes filled with reflexive tears. Was there no greater modern expression of trust than unlocking your cell phone and giving it to someone? He thought not! _Oh my stars._ When Wade just cradled the piece of technology, the choir sound of a thousand angels ringing through his head, Peter tapped the edge pointedly, dragging his attention back to the post.

Wade looked down, recognizing it instantly. “Oh, Marilyn.” Then, quieter, he said, “Oh. _Marilyn_.”

A few years ago, Wade had been looking for any excuse to get dolled up and strut around town. So when Halloween came around again, Wade had dusted off the old wig and white dress combo, diving head first into his own version of trick or treat. He’d caused much havoc that day.

Some time that night, Wade had talked a civilian into helping him recreate that iconic street vent scene for his internet fans. In the picture, Wade was wearing his Deadpool mask, a finger pressed coquettishly by his mouth even as the other pressed down to make sure he wasn’t flashing his naughty bits to all. Wade had been extra daring that day, because his mask was the only piece of his suit he’d kept close. And why wouldn’t he be daring? There was nothing quite like challenging Ms. Monroe to make a guy feel pretty, even with his skin condition.

Wade liked the picture then—still liked it now—but the photo was _haunting_ to the uninitiated. He’d worn tights because he liked the feeling of them, but they were sheer, unable to hide the extreme damage that was his entire existence. And his arms and chest, of course, were riddled with scars and sores, exposed by the plunging neckline and sleeveless straps.

No wonder Peter had been unsurprised. He’d known what he had been getting into well before Wade had started flirting with him on the elevator so many months ago.

While Wade was lost in thought, Peter took his phone out of Wade’s loose grasp, setting it on the side of the bed. “I’m not going to pretend to understand why you cover up all the time around me,” he said plainly. “ _Especially_ when you have things like this on the internet already. That’s not to say- you can still wear your mask and your suit around me if you want. I’ll even get up and get it for you.” He pressed a kiss against Wade’s cheek. “But I’d like it if you didn’t sometimes. If that’s okay?”

Was that okay? Oh boy. That was more than okay. That was the _dream_ , really.

But Wade didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes, rocking his head against Peter’s. As he breathed in deep the smell of shampoo and sex and Peter, he briefly considered that this all was just a very extended, hyper-realistic hallucination. He didn’t tend to get those without a horrific head injury, a near lethal dose of drugs, 72+ hours without sleep, or all three at once… like that one time he ran into Captain America, SHIELD, and half of the military in South America. Ah Cancun. _Tanks_ for the memories.

He practiced what worked then—deep breaths. Wiggling his toes. Counting backwards from fifty. And, of course, reciting a familiar song.

“ _How sweet it is to be loved by you_ ,” Wade mumbled slowly, off tune. “ _Ooh, baby, I needed the shelter of someone's arms—and there you were._ ”

Dreading it, Wade opened his eyes slowly. But Peter was still there. Warm. Soft. Breath moving in and out of him in a steady, hypnotic rhyme. Gaze as tender and warm as it ever was.

A little deeper, Wade whispered, “ _I needed someone to understand my ups and downs—and there you were.”_ Swallowing, Wade pulled Peter close, tucking his head under Peter’s chin.

Peter curled his arm around Wade’s shoulder. It was silent between them for some time—Peter just breathing and Wade humming to himself. _With sweet love and devotion, deeply touching my emotion_ , indeed.

“It’s been a long night,” Peter said finally.

“Sorry, hun.” Wade pressed a kiss against Peter’s neck. “Wanna talk about it?

“No, it’s… fine.” Wade made a noise of disagreement. Peter sighed, then slowly started sharing his worries about Harry and how his aunt was doing with her new diagnosis and how his uncle had called and said he was sorry.

Wade listened to Peter quietly. Peter was tired, his words barely coherent, but he kept petting Wade’s back in long, smooth strokes that were bound to put Wade to sleep in no time.

Then Wade remembered something vital. “You had a question for me.”

“Hm?”

Wade lifted his head. “When I came out of the bathroom. You were going to ask me something.” He’d seemed so stern about it too, so determined.

But now, Peter was at a loss. He frowned at Wade, his eyes half closed. “You’re really going to ask me to remember something like that when my brain is currently dribbling out of my ears?” he asked thickly.

“Ho ho. Sounds like a compliment to me.” Wade blew a raspberry against Peter’s collarbone.

It took Peter eighty-four years to complete a full swat at him. It was sad, really, especially since Peter lost his commitment halfway through, hugging Wade to him instead. “Something about… Harry. I’ll remember it later,” Peter promised.

Wade nodded. Of course it was about Harry. It always was. Harry was Peter’s number one guy.

“Sleep now,” Peter insisted.

Wade obeyed, dropping his head back to Peter’s chest. All throughout the night, he kept it where it was—tracking Peter’s steadily beating heart.

 

-

 

Peter stood in front of one of the office Keurig machines, waiting for his coffee. Someone shuffled up close to his elbow, letting out a questioning grumble. Peter grunted back a negation. Satisfied, the interloper shuffled off.

Peter dropped down to his elbows, watching the slow drip drip drip of his coffee.

Mondays.

His Sunday was… intense. His Saturday too, for that matter. So he’d woken up that morning with a drawn-out groan, covering his face with his hands. Seemingly instantly recovered from the weekend, Wade cheerfully loaded him up on pancakes and pushed him out. On some level, Peter was grateful that Wade’s will was stronger than his own, but right now, he was just plain grumpy about it.

What a weekend.

Peter muffled a yawn in his arm. With any luck, he’d be able to crack the egg that was Harry and coast through the rest of the week without having to think or move all that much. And maybe he could break tradition and hang out at Wade’s this week too. The buildings of New York were starting to get slick from the chill and bouts of rain, and snow was starting to threaten the forecast. Spider-Man could stick to pretty much anything, but his suit wasn’t quite insulated enough to stand up to New York in a snowstorm. He’d dealt with it last year with increasingly obnoxious Christmas sweaters and reindeer-themed sweats over his suit, but, for obvious reasons, he wasn’t feeling quite as festive this year.

No. He was going to stay lower to the ground this winter—and what better use of his free time than spending time with Wade? Wade would be thrilled. After all, he was the one insisting Peter needed a vacation. Peter just had to get through work first.

So, full coffee cup in hand, Peter stepped out of the break room into the hallway. His head bleated a tired warning just in time for Peter to pivot and avoid a head-on collision with a speeding coworker. Instead, Gwen Stacy ran into his opposite arm with enough force to lose her grip on her stack of papers.

Coffee, saved. Papers, not so much. They scattered across the ground in a wide spread.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine-”

Even so, Peter crouched, helping her gathering the documents. His hands lingered on a few, distracted by rows of numbers and charts.

Gwen pulled them out of his hands with an odd expression that was hastily covered with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Paper. That’s funny. I thought we went paperless last year.”

“Well, you know how it is. Some people are just set in their ways,” Gwen said breezily, her light tone not reaching her eyes. “Excuse me, I have to walk this down to… someone.”

She pushed past him, eyes on the floor. She walked away quickly, heading for the elevators.

Peter watched her go. Then he swung his gaze back, tracking where she must have come from. His eyes fell on the open door of Harry’s office. He could see from here that Harry wasn’t in. He also knew that Harry’s computer access was basically unrestricted. IT didn’t monitor him as closely as it did other employees—admin, sales, finance, and, yes, even R&D. _Don’t share your passwords_ , IT lectured on a weekly basis. Peter knew from experience that Harry’s password was written on the back of one of his business cards and pinned to the board next to his desk. It wasn’t exactly the most secure setup.

And Gwen, who probably knew that herself, had just taken advantage of it. But she had left one piece of paper behind. Peter bent over and picked it up, scanning over it quickly.

Then, dropping his coffee, Peter launched himself after her.

The elevator door shut before he could get there, so he took the stairs instead, lithely hopping over the railings when he was spared onlookers and cameras.

He was panting by the time he got down to the first level with parking structure elevators. He staggered out of the stairwell, closing the door behind him. Hoping he was wrong, Peter leaned against the wall across the way, crossing his arms over his chest.

But he wasn’t wrong. He only had to wait another two minutes. His common sense was usually lacking, but his instincts were on target. The doors slide open with a welcoming ding.

Gwen flinched badly at the sight of him, turning white. Then she giggled nervously. “So it is true after all! The execs do have a faster elevator than the rest of us, huh?”

Peter didn’t smile back. Wordlessly, he lifted the paper she left behind. Her eyes widened.

At the confirmation, Peter walked into the elevator, backing her back into the cart. Reaching behind him, he closed the doors, tapping a button at random. With a hitch, the elevator went back up.

Well and truly caught now, Gwen sighed, clutching the papers to her chest. “Peter-” she said, starting to explain.

Peter lifted a finger to his mouth, jerking his head to the camera in the elevator. She wilted and stared at her shoes until the elevator doors opened again.

“Walk with me,” Peter ordered.

He stepped out onto the random floor, waiting for her patiently. Gwen followed, hollowed out, pale, and so anxious, his Spidey sense was pinging faintly in empathy.

Peter scanned the unfamiliar hallway quickly. Within a minute, he found a small conference room for them to use. It was out of the way, half used as a storage space for extra chairs and outdated projectors. Harry often talked about throwbacks to his father’s small shop, like he was discussing long forgotten history. It was hard to see such a past in the sharp modern lines of the lobby or the lavish upper levels of the building. But it easier to see in places like this, artifacts tucked in corners and forgotten. Like a corporate mausoleum.

“This looks like where you take employees to discreetly kill them,” Gwen commented, looking around.

Peter hated that her sense of humor was so close to his own. “You broke your NDA, Gwen,” he snapped, voice low.

Gwen didn’t deny it. She didn’t make eye contact either, her fingers flexing slightly over her printed data. Her mouth was thinning faintly, and it seemed like she was assessing, evaluating his response before meeting it with her own.

They stood there, awkwardly hovering and tense around the table and chairs neither one of them would use. Peter stared at her for a little while longer before taking in a deep breath. “Okay. _Okay_. We can triage this.”

“There’s nothing to triage,” Gwen said flatly, finally making eye contact.

“No?” Peter barked out a humorless laugh. “Gwen, your NDA is _very specific_ about where your research data needs to be.” Peter pointed out the door. “And that is behind securely locked lab doors, saved in an encrypted server, and _certainly_ not printed on paper.” Gwen gazed at him coolly. His mind raced for an explanation, trying to throw her a bone. “It was a mistake, right? You’re still pretty new. Haven’t been here a full year, right? It was an accident, nothing more.”

“Right, like that’s going to work,” Gwen muttered, looking away again. 

“You’ll get fired, probably,” Peter agreed, trying to be kind.

The look Gwen shot him could melt iron. “I’d get blacklisted from every company and lab even remotely in my field. But I’d deal with it, Peter. And you want to know why?” Gwen slammed her stack of papers on the table between them. “ _Because I didn’t do it on accident_.”

“Don’t say that,” Peter pleaded quietly. Accidentally breaking an NDA was better than willfully breaking it, even if the law didn’t see it that way.

“Read it,” Gwen demanded.

“No,” Peter countered immediately.

Scowling at him, Gwen shoved the papers towards him again. “You want to help me? Get on my level for a second, and at least _try_ to understand why I’m doing this.”

Peter stared at her. Behind the forcefulness was a desperation he almost recognized, a plea for a listening ear. He looked down at the papers, touching the top one briefly. It wasn’t an unreasonable request, he justified slowly, flipping through the first sets of numbers. He’d reviewed research data before. Hell, it had been encouraged.

But this… this was different.

“Gwen, what am I looking at?”

“You tell me,” she challenged, crossing her arms over her chest.

Peter was already flipping through pages of data faster, scanning through them quickly. After a minute, he hypothesized an answer. “Uh… a twenty-week comparison of the biometrics of a 20-30 year old male, before and-” he paused, flipping back five pages “-after. Before and after the introduction of some variable.” He looked up for confirmation. “Right?”

After a beat, Gwen nodded. “A human trial.”

“Okay. So?” Oscorp was going through human trials for ten different new products. Why would she print out this one?

And why was it just this one person? He’d seen plenty of human trials data, but not usually one so focused on only one individual, this “American Son”. How were you supposed to generalize any information on such a small sample size?

Gwen huffed out a breath, arms tightening. “It’s a human trial for Vitanova,” she clarified, eyebrows popping up.

Finally, Peter was on the same page. “You’re positive,” he said flatly, papers slipping between his fingers.

“Absolutely,” she growled defensively. “It’s my project. I’m the lead on it now. Of all people, I would know if Vitanova was clear for human experimentation.”

And it couldn’t be. Vitanova was an exciting new product that promised to revolutionize the entire medical industry, but it was still at least five years away from being people-ready. Peter had watched all news on the cure like a hawk, _especially_ after May’s cancer came back. There was no way in hell anyone was testing it already on people.

So Peter was already shaking his head. “No. No, Norman is way too careful. It’s fake. Or… or if it is real, there’s gotta be… some approval somewhere that you didn’t see. Some FDA fast track-” But Gwen would know if the second thing was true, wouldn’t see?

Gwen rubbed a hand over her mouth. Then she gestured at Peter with it. “In the best-case scenario, someone is falsifying data, and that’s hugely bad. Millions and millions of funding could go down the drain, and most of our investors with it.”

Peter gaped at her. “That’s the best case scenario?”

Gwen scowled at him again. She leaned forward, stabbing a finger at the data under Peter’s hands. “Worse-case scenario is this.”

“A chart?”

“ _A person_ ,” Gwen said with feeling. “If the data is real, American Son is a real, live person. A human being in a lab somewhere being used as a guinea pig for a drug with _a sixty percent mortality rate_!”

The hits just kept coming. “Since when has it had a sixty percent mortality rate?” Peter barked.

“Since the beginning,” Gwen hissed back at him, eyes flashing. “Why do you think we announced the product? We needed new investors and more money to iron out the problems in the formula. Right now, the formula is killing more than it cures—and we can’t figure out why.” She poked at the papers. “Which is why this drug would have _never_ been cleared for human trials.”

Peter had to sit down. “60% mortality rate?” he repeated softly. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut, and all he could think about was May.

Gwen watched him. She seemed to sense his mood shift and gentled just a little bit. She leaned a hip into the table next to Peter, head bowing. “We’re on animal trials right now, right?” she said quietly. “They seem fine at first. A little reclusive, a lot hungry. They do the tricks we trained them to do. They’re social. Friendly.” Gwen blinked rapidly, swallowing. “And then they change. They get irritable. They start… reacting to things that aren’t in their environment—hallucinating, we think. They stop being social. They stop doing tricks, even for food. Their brain matter shrinks. They stop sleeping.”

Gwen lifted her head, staring at Peter steadily. “Then they get really, really strong and start killing each other.”

Peter covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god.”

“This guy, this… American Son,” Gwen said, continuing. “He’s getting incredibly low doses, but whoever is writing the reports is keeping very detailed information on him.” He heard her tap on the paper again. “This guy? Whoever he is? He’s showing the same history of symptoms as our rats. And if he’s not helped, if this testing doesn’t stop… Peter, he could die.”

Peter couldn’t believe this was happening. But he nodded, mind racing two, three steps ahead. He planted both hands on the table and stood.

“Right,” he said. “I need you to sit on this.”

“Right,” Gwen echoed, mouth twisting. He’d disappointed her, it seemed, and she wasn’t quite quick enough to hide it. She shook her head, pulling the papers back to her sharply. “You know, I… I thought you were _different_. Harry always said-”

Peter lifted his hands defensively. “I know how it sounds,” he said soothingly.

“Do you? I may be down in the labs, but even I’ve heard about what executive assistants are really supposed to do.” Gwen gathered up all of the papers in a neat pile. “Whatever. I don’t need you. If I get Alias Investigations on this-”

She was trying to leave. Hating to do it, Peter nevertheless stepped between her and the door. “You’re not thinking this through,” Peter said pleadingly. “Jessica is endgame. She lacks subtlety. By the time she gets anywhere, servers will be wiped and labs will be moved.” A dawning look of uncertainty crept over Gwen’s face. Peter pushed his point, needing her cooperation. “And if we have _any_ chance of finding American Son, any at all, we need to have our ducks in a row. And that means way more information than a report you stumbled on in a lab server.” Once he felt Gwen understood, he stepped aside, no longer blocking her exit. “So please sit on it for at least seventy-two hours while I do some digging.”

Gwen didn’t immediately leave. Instead, she hugged the papers to her chest, hesitating. “What are you going to do?”

Peter didn’t lie. “For starters? Start digging through the email servers.” When she cocked her head in surprise, Peter shrugged. “Yeah. I can sign in at any time as anyone in this company and look at anyone’s inbox. Sent, saved, deleted—doesn’t matter.”

He also had a number of other options at his fingertips, like reviewing as much of the data for the other human trials as he could find, scouring staffing rosters of employees tied to the labs to figure out who to investigate, and even digging through police reports and emergency room records if he had to. After all, if American Son wasn’t imprisoned in the lab, then he was out and about with a wide variety of symptoms that could have caused friction with the NYPD or encouraged him to seek medical help.

And all of those sources of information didn’t even begin to touch all the people he would have to discreetly chat with—both in and out of Oscorp.

“You are such a creep,” Gwen said, but not without a bit of awe.

“It’s my job description,” Peter said unapologetically. “Remember, this is a threat to Oscorp. It implicates all of us, and that’s a huge problem. Norman Osborn is a scorched Earth kind of guy. If this isn’t handled right, he’ll bury this like Pompeii, and you with it. Understood?” Gwen slowly nodded. “Now, if we can pull together enough information to show the hows or the whys or the whos behind this, we’ll have the ability to act. To identify the people responsible and get them out of Oscorp and in the hands of the proper authorities.” And hopefully mask Gwen’s involvement in his. Norman might accept Peter outing a misbehaving executive, but he would never tolerate a whistleblower. Never.

Gwen was leaning back slightly, frowning. “And what, you get another raise for outing another threat to the company?” She sounded doubtful, and Peter was suddenly reminded that she hadn’t come to him for help at all. Peter had forced this conversation.

And now, he needed to earn her trust.

“I’m trying to help you,” Peter said. “Help you. Help him. And I’m not even asking you to shred that data! Keep it. I don’t care. But I need time to back you up, and I’m _begging_ you to give it to me.”

Gwen seemed to accept that. “Fine. I want Reed Richards’ input on this.”

Peter was already nodding. “Good choice. Reed can be discrete.”

Strangely, Peter’s willingness to compromise didn’t seem to help. “I’m going to leave a copy of this with him too,” she threatened.

“Even better.” Peter lifted his hands up when Gwen continued to squint at him suspiciously.  “Look, you got this ball rolling. I respect that. But now it’s in my court, and I have a chance to send to the end zone. But I can’t get this homerun if you won’t let me past the serving line.”

Something in that made Gwen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Um. Okay,” she said, almost to herself. She tipped her head, eyeing Peter briefly. “You weren’t on any sports teams growing up, were you? It really shows.” Peter didn’t know how to respond to that, but she didn’t give him time to anyways. “In seventy-two hours, I’m going to be pounding down the door of Alias Investigations. If you’re really with me, you’ll be there too.” She pushed past him, opening the door. She paused at the entryway, looking back at him. “And I really hope you’re with me, Peter.”

With that, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving Peter behind.

Peter turned away, arms swinging restlessly by his side. His hand flew up, gripping the back of his tense neck as a new bout of anxiety flooded his system.

But with it also came a sudden fierce burn of purpose. He’d been complacent with Harry, his first “easy” assignment of the bunch. Harry wasn’t the kind of crap person who ruined people or damaged the company. But someone else out there was, and he or she needed to be exposed pronto. Which meant that Peter needed to do what he did best.

It was times like these that he really thought executive assistants were the Spider-Men of the corporate world, and Peter was going to prove it.

But first things first: “What was wrong with my sports analogy?”

 

-

 

The cold battered Harry, whipping the edges of his coat back and forth. He approached the end of the roof in a haze, not stopping until he could look down at the sparkling stretch of flat glass under his feet.

He felt a sudden urge to leap off, to see the ground rushing up beneath him, and his stomach churned with the conflicting desires—to jump and to not die. Harry had always been afraid of heights. Always, always, and even Norman knew that. Yet…

Harry slowly slid his fingers in his hair, pulling.

“I’m not him,” Harry had begged that night in his apartment. Crying, injured, _hurting_ \- “I’m not him. It was just a joke, _please_.” But the Green Goblin had gotten his confession eventually, hadn’t he? Coercing it from him.

And Harry wanted desperately to pretend he was protecting Spider-Man by lying, saying that he was the superhero. But the truth of the matter was that Harry would have sold out Spider-Man in a heart beat to get away from that monster, which made these bursts of feeling like Spider-Man even worse, even more unforgivable.

He wasn’t Spider-Man. He didn’t even deserve to share oxygen with the man. But sometimes he forgot.

“Why don't you get off the ledge there, son?”

Harry tensed, anxiety flooding through him. But obediently, he stepped back down from the ledge, turning to face his unconcerned father. Like him, Norman was wearing a long overcoat over his suit. His shoes were shiny and clean. His hair was set with an almost angular, rigid perfection, and his cold gray eyes revealed nothing.

Other parents might panic, demand to know what drove their child to such a dangerous position. But no, Norman Osborn looked beyond him, already setting up moves for the next game. “Surveying your city?

As usual, Harry didn’t know how to approach small talk from this man. “Manhattan is beautiful,” Harry said through numb lips. It had the added benefit of being true. He was sleeping at Oscorp Tower constantly now, so he knew there was nothing quite as gorgeous as Manhattan lit up by a winter sunrise.

Of course, it was the wrong thing to say. Norman didn’t care much for beauty.

“Oscorp is at the top of the food pyramid, even in New York,” Norman opined, his tone shaded with a hint of reprimand. Harry’s head bowed. “And we can go much higher.”

“With Vitanova,” Harry said quietly. He flinched minutely, eyes closing. Vitanova… his own little rebellion. Look how much it cost him. He clenched his fists in his coat, vowing to say nothing more.

“And other products,” Norman said knowingly, clapping a hand on Harry’s rigid shoulder. “Other avenues of revenue. I have had many successful conversations with our friends in government. Oscorp will reap the benefits of billions of dollars in revenue… with or without your interference _._ ”

With that, Harry felt a little piece of himself die inside. He’d tried his best to stem the tide of the swell of new defense contracts—armor, mostly, but also ballistics and explosives. Civilian suppression tactics—deployable jails, mobilized and unmanned weaponry units.

“The cure for cancer will put Oscorp on top of the world, sir.” Not becoming an arms manufacturer.

Norman wasn’t listening to him. He’d stopped listening many years ago. “Ascension is necessary and expected. Obstacles are put in our way to be removed.”

Norman was staring across the New York skyline. Harry followed his gaze to the Old Stark Tower—the old _Avengers_ Tower. Abandoned and on the market, the property didn’t have a new owner, and every time someone started sniffing around it interestedly, Tony Stark upped the price tag out of their means. It was clear that Stark was not interested in selling it—but he sure as hell was interested in making it look like no one lived there.

There were other Stark properties in and around New York City, some of them even in view, but nothing was quite as visually distinctive as the Tower, that place that Stark—and the rest of the Avengers—proved that they were heads and shoulders above everyone else.

For Norman Osborn, the sight of it was an open wound. Harry could trace the radicalization of his father’s business decisions to those early days of the Avengers. Or maybe even earlier than that when Stark came back from the Middle East, talking a mile a minute about the evils of weapons manufacturing just before he ripped his company’s arms contracts to shreds.

It was a career ender, everyone had said. Stark would be ousted immediately by the company for such outlandish moves. And he had been, briefly. But Stark had weathered that storm. He had reinvented Stark Industries, taking its massive assets and applying them towards other technology—life saving technology. Artificial intelligence, green energy, prosthetics, telecommunications, productivity, and, yes, even entertainment.

But he hadn’t stopped there. He had funneled huge amounts of money into opening up an award-winning biochemistry lab that had already destroyed seventeen viruses, developed a disease-resistant and hyper-hardy potato that could grow in any climate, and created a cure—not a treatment, but a cure—for rabies, cystic fibrosis, and hepatitis B.

Instead of tying hefty price tags to these game changers, he instead pushed them to the public through subsidiary companies and nonprofits at a fraction of the cost. In other words, he had crossed over into Oscorp territory and done them the disservice of doing their jobs so much better.

And Stark was the exact opposite of apologetic for this. “We have the technology to create a better world,” Stark said to sign off all of his TED Talks. “Chop chop, people.”

The world ate it up. Two years after he crawled out of a terrorist stronghold with PTSD and a battery wired in his chest, Tony Stark was named the greatest philanthropist the world had ever seen—and he was making billions in spite of it.

Norman had been seething ever since. Stark was the favored businessman in town. Everyone wanted to work with a hero, an Avenger, and Norman was doing something he wasn’t used to doing—falling short. His father could be charming when he wanted to, but most treaded carefully around him. He was known for being two-faced and cruel.

Genius untampered by humanity was unnerving, and the world was taking a step back.

A step back Harry wasn’t allowed.

“Despite your attempts,” Norman said with a nod, “your piece in this is... invaluable. Priceless. I hope you remember that.”

From a different father, the words would have been kind. But this father was pulling out a slim silver case from his coat. This father was opening the case, pulling a syringe from its insides.

“Kneel,” Norman ordered.

Harry wasn’t brave. He was afraid of his father. He was _terrified_ of the monster hiding behind his father’s face. He didn’t reach out for the help he needed. He pretended like his gaps of memory were bigger than they were. He looked superheroes and cops in the face and did his best to direct them away from the truth. He lied to his friends and hurt his loved ones. Worse, he lied to himself, insisting he was still in control here.

Harry was a coward. So he kneeled.

“You’ve missed your last three appointments,” Norman reminded him. “The dose will be extra strong today.” Harry shuddered. “Take your medicine, little spider.”

Without any warning, Norman stabbed his shoulder with the syringe. Harry fisted his pants, twisting under the agony of the cold burn of the chemical. He bit down on his lips, swearing to himself that he didn’t imagine swinging from building to building away from here.

Because he wasn’t Spider-Man, and he was going to remember that this time.

He wasn’t Spider-Man. He wasn’t. He _wasn’t._

Norman crouched down next to him. A hand twisting in his hair, he jerked Harry’s head back. “This is what you’re going to do for me, little spider. Listen very carefully, and remember what happens when I have to repeat myself…”

He wasn’t. He wasn’t.

He was.

 

-

 

Peter couldn’t find Harry on Monday. His luck wasn’t much better on Tuesday either. Peter bit the bullet and called him. He got his voicemail. Not giving up, Peter updated him on a few projects he was interested in.

Harry didn’t call back until almost the end of the day on Tuesday. He sounded tired and sad. Even when Peter told him he had a credible lead for the Oscorp murders, Harry could barely muster up a response. He just sounded so defeated by something. It was infectious. It made the whole world seem a little grayer.

Peter made the mistake of saying as much to Wade, and now Wade was taking it upon himself to send Peter increasingly sappy and X-rated texts throughout his day. If Peter had any of the self-control he thought he did, he would ignore each text as it came in. But he didn’t. He read each one as they came up, even in a mandatory HR “Appropriate Use of Technology and Social Media” training, an act that made the newest HR recruit’s eyes bug in disbelief. Whatever. If she saw what Wade sent him, then she’d _really_ have something to respond to.

But in the end, Peter mustered up the tatters of his responsibility and professionalism and made Wade promise not to come to the office. It was self-defense, really. If Wade showed up, Peter was going to jump him—to hell with whoever was watching.

The one positive thing about Harry being out was taking over his office. Few people barged into an Osborn’s office, whereas Peter’s was practically an airport runway. In the quiet, Peter was able to quickly finish up his reports, including his executive assignment report on Harry.

Harry’s job was an interesting one. In his position, his tasks were divided equally between PR, relationship management, and sales. He juggled all aspects of his job almost flawlessly, and his achievements far outweighed his failures—Peter wrote as much in his report. In fact, the only negative numbers Peter could find were in his pursuit of defense contracts. It was a C+ job instead of his usual A+, and Peter didn’t know why. He didn’t speculate in the report, but, boy, did he wonder. Harry didn’t seem inherently anti-military, but maybe there was something in those contracts he objected to. Some term or restriction—Harry poured over those kinds of things with a magnifying glass and a lawyer at each elbow.

Peter wanted to check it out himself, but government projects were one of the few contracts Peter didn’t have the authority to crack open and look at, partially because they were government projects but mostly because Norman was the lead on them himself. And as much as Norman wanted executives to be watched, analyzed, and judged on a regular basis, he didn’t approve of the practice on himself.

Either way, Peter’s report was done. Harry Osborn was an exemplary employee, as always.

Peter was glad for the seclusion for another reason too. He was about a day and a half into his self-imposed deadline to investigate the alleged Vitanova human trial, and he was finally starting to get some hits.

On Monday, Peter set up a discrete code to scour the mail server for mentions of American Son, human trials, and Vitanova. The few initial hits he received were relatively innocent, so he backed off from it and let the code work. On Tuesday, in between meetings, he alternated between checking it, taking notes on all the parties attached to the Vitanova project, and Facetiming Wade, the last of which was both delightful and distracting. Wade kept wanting to share his endlessly evolving Peter the CEO fantasies, and Peter taking over Harry’s office for the day was apparently not helping.

On one such call, Wade’s masked face was close to the screen and his white eyes were round. “You look good surrounded by wealth. Can I buy you things?” Peter saw his feet kick up behind him. He was lying on his stomach on his bed.

“I don’t need things, Wade. I just need you.” A message came up on his computer. He set aside the phone, distractedly responding to an information request.

“Mmhm. And food,” Wade said, watching him unabashedly.

“And food. Water too.” Peter turned his head, flashing a small grin at the phone. “Food, water, and you. Can you handle that?”

Wade swooned out of frame. Peter laughed out loud. Talking to Wade was the only thing keeping him from pulling his hair out these days.

When he wasn’t chatting with Wade, he sent out some messages to a few of his superhero contacts out of habit, trying to feel out if there was any word on the street about illegal drug trials, as these things tended to trickle down. He received no response.

Instead of feeling abandoned, he felt oddly… invigorated. Like he was going back to the basics. Like he was nineteen again and operating like he was the only superpowered idiot in town trying to save it.

It was such a strong feeling that, on Wednesday, Peter ended up breaking one of his most sacred rules—he put on the suit during work hours. 

From the start, it was a bad idea. Peter didn’t have a great sense of timing, and a past supervisor had raked him over the coals for it early on in his career, dangling the threat of no income over his head. He took it for the sign from the universe that it was. Patrolling during work time wasn’t just bad. It was a slippery slope that could potentially damage everything that he’d worked so hard to accomplish.

And there Peter was. Doing it anyway and loving every second of it.

He got tangled up in some street crime, retrieved a basketball from behind a fence, caught two muggers, and lectured a trio of kids on the dangers of jaywalking. He was _pumped_. It was nothing he didn’t normally do, but, unwilling to risk his job, he usually delegated the day stuff to the other Spideys or cashed in a favor with either the Defenders or the Four.

He was already an hour late to get back to work when he came across a car accident in the middle of a four-way intersection. Someone had crossed a street on a red and hit another car, which was then hit by the car behind her. Thanks to the low speeds of everyone involved, it wasn’t as much of a mess as it could have been.

The woman in the center car looked mostly alright—shaken and cut up by the collision and pinned in her car by the vehicles on either side of her. She couldn’t get out on her own. One of the other drivers got the hint and managed to move his own car away from the woman, revealing a passenger door that was crushed into place.

Being an upstanding individual and, more importantly, a superhero with super strength, Peter offered a hand.

It was a calm process, despite the noise. With typical New Yorker empathy, the held up cars all around them honked incessantly. By the time Peter had pried open the passenger side of the car, freeing the injured driver, cops had come in to reroute traffic away from the accident. An ambulance came to a stop right behind the car.

The driver shakily stood, bracing a hand against Peter’s shoulder. They’d built up a rapport in the last few minutes, chatting about her kids and the upcoming holiday season. She’d conked her head against the glass window when she was hit, and it was this potential injury Peter alerted the EMTs to when they intervened to render first aid. She wouldn’t go on the gurney, so Peter acted as her escort, walking her carefully to the back of the open ambulance.

“Taking the paramedic’s jobs next, Webhead?”

Pausing a little at this, Peter turned his head, eyes finding the cop who said that.

“At least they’re bringing something to the party besides a bad attitude and a light show,” Peter quipped.

“Yeah, blame us for some idiots getting hurt on the road.” The driver cleared her throat. For a moment, the cop seemed ashamed. “Um, sorry, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Spider-Man,” she said.

Peter thanked her in return, backing away from the ambulance so the EMTs could do their work.

Unfortunately, Officer Mouthy McDoucherson was still standing there, thumbs looped in his belt. While most of his coworkers were scattered, interviewing the other drivers, he just stood there with another officer, judging Peter for his life choices.

And, yeah, there were plenty to judge, okay? But not by someone who called a victim of an accident an _idiot_.

Peter couldn’t help but poke. “You know, customer service is a vital part of every occupation. Maybe some of the money going towards your guns could go into some more training? Just a thought.”

“You think you could do my job?” McDoucherson challenged. “Ha! You don’t know how hard it is to be a cop.”

“Yes,” Peter drawled. He tapped his temple with his pointer finger. “How hard is it to protect the community you live in? Remind me, again. I wouldn’t know.”

“You want to help people, freak? Then do it legitimately. Enroll in the academy.”

That surprised him. “You’re kidding me,” Peter said flatly.

“Better than skulking around like a criminal.”

Peter let out an incredulous laugh, letting his arms drop. “Beyond the whole corruption thing and wildly insular ‘thin blue line’, you really think someone with my abilities would just be allowed to join you guys?”

Peter was probably talking too fast because McDoucherson only registered the second half of what he said. “Hey, our application process is fair.”

“Then how come there isn’t a single enhanced person in your entire precinct?” Peter countered quickly. He was not off base about that. There had been a news report on it and everything.

“It’s not our fault the mutie freaks can’t take the heat.”

Peter sucked in a sharp breath. “What did you just say?”

Something changed. The cop behind Mouthy McDoucherson moved his hand so it hovered over his gun. McDoucherson, on the other hand, looked bullheaded and annoyed, like he was really going to double down on his prejudicial shit in the middle of an intersection in the middle of one of the most diverse cities in the world—and in an age that any citizen could report on it with just a touch of a button. 

But before it could get really ugly, a plain clothes police woman stepped between them. “Gentlemen, ease up on chitchat. The fumes are already giving me a headache without your nonsense.” She pointed at McDoucherson and his buddy. “You two, get witness statements. There are pedestrians who haven’t received so much as a good afternoon. _Get on it_.”

Peter didn’t recognize her. She was shorter than he was and thin. Her eyes were a deep brown, and her jaw length hair was as dark as her leather jacket. Most importantly, though, was the way the cops responded to her. The fact that Mouthy McDoucherson snapped to attention made Peter think she was boss-level—whatever boss-level was for cops, anyway.

Then she swung her focus to Peter, who froze just a little bit. Her gaze was piercing, and she sized him up in the few seconds it took her to look him up and down. Then, weirdly, she smiled.

“Spidey! Thanks for the assist. The completely illegal assist, by the way. This is your warning that you have several warrants out for your arrest.”

“I frame every one of them,” Peter fired back. “Who are you again?”

“Yuri Watanabe. Turn yourself in and face the justice system… etc etc.” She crooked her finger at him and started walking, pulling out a pad of paper. “I’m getting your witness statement. Play along.”

Peter was confused. And curious. The curiosity was stronger than his anger, so he tucked it into a ball and followed after her. “You’re oddly friendly.”

“And you’re oddly hostile. Try not to piss off every cop you see, hm? Not all of us want to see you vigilante types locked up behind bars.” Yuri scratched a circle into her pad until the ink started flowing. “Speaking of which, you break up with the Brady Bunch?”

When she looked back at him, Peter tried to pretend he hadn’t been looking over her shoulder. “Um. Which one?”

“All of them,” Yuri said plainly, searching his mask. Peter looked away quickly. “You’ve teamed up with the local supers a lot more these last few years. I was pretty happy about the development, personally. It’s been a running fear of mine to find your lifeless body face down in a ditch someday.”

Peter wasn’t naïve enough to think that would never happen. So he didn’t challenge the last part of her statement, choosing to instead focus on the first. “We’re going through a bit of a rough patch.”

She eyed him over that comment. “Kinda like the perpetual rough patch you have with the NYPD?”

Peter jerked his thumb back at Mouthy McDoucherson. “Nah, that’s more of a sibling love/hate relationship,” he said cheerfully. “The things with the others are…”

Peter couldn’t think of how to phrase it. His shoulders slumped, his head with it. He couldn’t even joke about it. It was still super depressing to think about how quickly he went from having all these amazing friends and mentors to having no one. Peter really was going to end up in a ditch someday, wasn’t he?

Yuri scribbled something on her notepad, then ripped the first sheet off, giving it to him. “Here.”

It was a phone number. Next to it, in a tight hand, she’d written _when you need a little more legitimacy_. Peter looked up at her with surprise.

Yuri shot him a hell of a poker face. “Chin up. It’ll work out. Even if it doesn’t, you still got friends out here.” Finally, a thin, hesitant smile broke over her face. She didn’t seem like someone who smiled at lot, but here it was—his second one in five minutes. It was enough to make a guy feel blessed. “See you around, Spider-Man. Thanks for the assist. Really.”

Yuri walked away, joining her subordinates. Peter lingered for just a second, shaking his head out like it could change what he just heard. Then he shot out a web, zipping up to the next rooftop.

There he paused again, looking down at that yellow piece of paper in his hand.

Damn… really?

Before Peter could get too caught up in what he was just offered, his phone chirped at him. He fumbled, pawing at his belt before pulling out his personal phone. Seymour had gotten back to him awfully quick. He read through the text quickly before slowing down and reading it again.

An old friend from high school, Seymour O’Reilly had done well for himself, settling mid-rank in Oscorp’s IT department. Seymour had often boasted of his prowess over all of the information technologies at the company. Peter hadn’t believed him.

Until, at least, today. He’d taken the document number associated with Gwen’s stolen lab data and challenged Seymour to figure out where the data was coming from. Seymour had figured it out, alright.

But where the hell was “Alpha Lab”?

 

-

 

Jessica’s head slammed into the wall. Stunned, she spat blood out of her mouth and pushed away from it. Her vision spun and she swayed, swinging around to face her attacker.

“Hey, pro tip. If you want to mug someone, just don’t.”

This was the dirtiest, ugliest fight Jessica had been in for a while, and _she wasn’t winning_.

It had started suddenly and without warning just a minute or two outside of her home. Her street had had its lights shot out a few months back, and the city was dragging its feet in replacing them. Without the usual array of super senses other enhanced people had, she’d had no warning when the man jumped her.

Her attacker swung a fist at her head. She ducked, kicking him into a dumpster with the kind of crack that usually made her skin go cold with lizard brain fear. But the man got up again, sliding to his feet only to square up with the kind of crappy boxer stance you only saw in movies. Then he flew at her, attacking her again.

He never said a word. That bothered her the most. He never yelled at her or called her a bitch or monologued his revenge scheme. Instead, he _seethed_. Under his mask, all that came out was hissed, pent up breathing that she had only ever heard out of angry, teenage boys, trying desperately not to cry.

They hit the slick asphalt together between two cars, grappling wildly, equally strong. Worse, a taxi had just turned down her street, speeding too fast for a street shrouded in darkness—too fast for Jessica, whose head was in the road.

Panicking, she struggled futilely with her attacker as he tried to overpower her—nearly succeeding. Then, in a last-ditch attempt, Jessica finally got enough leverage to free her arm. She immediately punched him in the head. Her attacker made a pained noise and wobbled off her, finally weakening. Jessica kicked him away from her and rolled out of the way of the taxi just in time, cursing up a storm. She pushed herself to her feet and launched herself back on the sidewalk.

Her assailant was still stumbling, groaning now. He twisted around at the sound of her boot against concrete, and he threw himself at her, body low in a tackle. Jessica braced herself, catching him by the shoulder and by the head, bringing him to a dead stop. Then, guided by an instinct she couldn’t place, she fisted her hand in his mask and ripped it off. 

This close, she could barely see him, but what she did see was hauntingly familiar. Those brown eyes, that familiar hairline, that vague, unfocused face. She remembered seeing it once in broad daylight. But this time, the clarity didn’t come.

His hands shot out, gripping both of her biceps and lifting her straight up in the air. Then she was flying, smashing halfway through the glass windshield of a parked car. By the time she pulled herself out of the wreckage, she had a bloody nose, half a million cuts, and a wad of spandex in her fist.

But he was gone. He’d leapt straight up into the air, catching himself on a fire escape, using it as a springboard to escape into the night.

Bitter, she swore continuously—had been this entire time to that odd intense silence—and yanked out her phone. She jabbed at a contact and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Hey.” Luke sounded drowsy, like he was on his way to bed. Jessica said nothing, just hanging on to the image a bit, needing it. She was breathing heavily, her heart pounding like a drum and limbs shaky with stress. She tasted iron in her mouth.

“Hey,” Luke said with more intent. “Talk to me, Jess. _Talk to me_.”

“Luke,” she rasped finally. The fire escape groaned above her. Flinching, half expecting her attacker to return, Jessica looked up. Peering down at her instead was one of her neighbors. She had a phone out, casually filming Jessica with one hand and smoking a cigarette in the other. Jessica gritted her teeth and flipped off her neighbor, memorizing the woman’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Luke asked.

Jessica didn’t want to say it. She bit her bloody lip, walking to a well-lit stoop just a minute away. She opened her clenched fist, watching as the spandex expanded slightly, revealing red fabric and familiar pair of white lenses.

“I think Spidey just tried to kill me.”


	9. Chapter 9

Peter quietly let himself into Wade’s apartment. He checked his watch—yup, just barely still Wednesday. It was nine already, and he’d promised Wade he’d be there by six at the latest. Wade had promised dinner. But Peter had gotten caught up in patrol, and then Seymour got back to him with the Alpha Lab thing, and one thing led to another and-

Yeah. Bad boyfriend. Peter was prepared to grovel.

The television was on, its light flashing over the back of the couch Peter could see even from here. Peter let the door close behind him.

“Hey.”

The man on the couch flailed, surprised. After he got all of his limbs back under control, Wade popped his head up over the back of the couch, peering at him. He had a blanket wrapped around his head like a shawl utilized to ward off the worst effects of a sandstorm.

“U-uh, hey,” Wade sputtered, trying to sound casual.

Peter was paralyzed—because there were _eyes_ visible tonight. In the last three or four days, Wade had relapsed hard into wearing his mask 24/7, if not his full suit. Peter hadn’t pushed—he was sincere in wanting Wade to feel comfortable—but he wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t disappointed. But here Wade was, face as bare as that fateful Saturday.

And Peter had been _late_.

Behind his makeshift mask, Wade’s eyes looked scared. “I’ll cover up,” he promised. “You’re surprised, and I- It’s okay. I’d be surprised too.”

That… that was a lot to unpack. Peter didn’t have the time or energy to tell Wade all the reasons why covering up was so very unnecessary. No, there was only one way to go from here. The fastest, most efficient way to yank Wade straight out of his head was to be a goddamn brat about it.

Peter dropped his work bag to the floor. “No,” he whined, crawling over the back of the sofa. “I’ll be good.”

Wade had little choice but to take his weight, even as Peter immediately burrowed into the blankets, revealing Wade’s body to him. Wade wasn’t even wearing the suit, just a tank top and some sweatpants. Silently scolding himself, Peter unearthed Wade’s chest, then blew a raspberry against his warped clavicle. Then Peter started tickling.

From that point, it was on. Blankets scattered around the couch as they fought each other mercilessly, fingers finding sensitive spaces to poke and pinch, giggling ruthlessly at each other.

It ended too soon when Peter leaned too hard to the left and tipped over, landing hard on his back by the side of the couch. He sucked in a surprised breath. Then he laughed. Guard fully dropped by now, Wade slithered off of the couch with him, dropping his dead weight on him from a foot above. Peter huffed out a laugh again, groaning too, trapping questing, tickling hands with his own before rolling on top of Wade.

He pressed their hands down on the floor on either side of Wade’s head. “Hey Wade,” he said, flirty. Then, more serious, he said, “I’m sorry I was late.”

Wade shrugged. “Nah. It’s okay. You didn’t miss anything. I burnt the food anyway.”

He was being kind. He had a tendency of doing that when Peter least expected it. But he didn’t expect kindness back, which killed Peter a little bit. Peter knew Wade had his issues with morality and figuring out who he wanted to be in life. He also knew that, for an obnoxiously confident and cocky man, Wade was shockingly insecure, and a big part of that had to do with what his mutation did to him, the ordeal he had survived.

But whether Wade believed it or not, he was still a good looking man. His skin was warped and pitted with scar tissue, sure. But he had a nice nose and a tempting jawline. His eyes were always bright and animated, and his smile was particularly devastating, even when it reached annoying, shit-eating grin levels. In fact, when Wade smiled at him, Peter immediately caved and did whatever he wanted, which was the kind of leverage Spider-Man should have given no man, let alone a man as complicated as Wade Wilson.

And his mouth was very, very nice.

Peter kissed him just to make sure. Then he kissed him again and again, until he sat up suddenly, much to the upset of the man underneath him. “Hey! I remembered the question I was doing to ask you. That night. With the towel.”

“That would be what you remembered.” Wade’s eyes lit up with mischief. “And the answer is I _do_.” Might have been a little bit sweeter if Wade hadn’t taken that moment to free one hand, find the band of Peter’s boxer-briefs, and snap it against his stomach.

“Not that question. Not yet.” Peter nipped his chin in retaliation. He caught Wade’s hand and doubled down on his hold. Wade didn’t even pretend it was a punishment, linking his hands with Peter’s happily. “It had to do with Harry.”

Wade blinked up at him innocently. “Potter?”

“ _Osborn._ I wanted to ask you why you wanted to talk to him so much.”

Wade let out a gusty sigh big enough to lift Peter on his perch. “Harry and I need to have a chat. That’s all.”

“Right, right. And what did you say was the topic again?”

Wade eyed him. “I didn’t. It’s private. A to B conversation.”

Peter scowled at Wade. He’d already figured it out, but if Wade wanted to play it close to the chest, maybe Peter could play that game too. He’d solve everything first and, when Wade was pulling at his yarn, wondering how he’d lost track of the hunt, Peter could saunter in and school him about _A to B conversations_.

“This is a normal kind of chat, though, right? Not one that leads to, uh, fisticuffs?” Peter wanted to clarify.

Wade was smirking at him. “You are fucking adorable. No. It’s a chat. Between friends.”

Peter made a face at that. Friends? Harry was a lot of things to a lot of people. But friends with Wade Wilson was stretching it. Wade seemed so earnest about it, though. Peter absorbed that slowly before sitting back. “You really waited months to chat with Harry? Just so he could make the first move? Wade, I don’t know if that’s sweet or stupid.”

“Definitely leaning towards stupid,” Wade muttered. He blinked. “Or smart! Look who I met in the meantime.”

It was Peter’s turn to be innocent. “Norman Osborn?”

“You, you brat.” The fondness in his gaze curled around Peter’s chest. Peter felt ten feet tall.

“I can moderate,” he offered. “Harry basically does what I tell him to anyway.” Usually, anyway.

Wade wiggled underneath him, testing Peter’s hold but not freeing himself. “Ugh, that’s so sexy,” he whined. Then he shook his head. “But no, sweetheart. I meant it when I respected your neutrality on this.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Peter muttered, releasing Wade’s hands. He smoothed out Wade’s tank top. It was Steven Universe themed. Peter smiled, wondering how Wade felt about gemsonas. But on the other hand, he had a suspicion that this might open up a serious conversation Peter was never going to be ready for. Wade never half-assed his obsessions.

Wade reached up and traced his fingers along Peter’s lip. “What’s this?”

It took Peter a moment to understand that what Wade was tracing was Peter’s smile. “I’m feeling…” Peter held his breath, giving himself a moment to feel out the word. “Good?”

“Really,” Wade said. His hairless eyebrows rose dubiously. “You?”

Peter pinched him for the comment. “It’s just… I’ve been feeling so overwhelmed lately, but now… it’s still a lot, but I feel like I can handle this. Like everything’s going to be okay.”

Wade sat up beneath him, shifting Peter lower to his lap. “Well, you know what I think.”

“What?”

Wade clasped both hands in the small of Peter’s back. “I think it’s my boyfriendly duty to make you feel like that as much as possible.” As if to seal the deal, he leaned over and planted a kiss on Peter’s forehead.

Peter was smiling again. “What, overwhelmed?”

“No, good,” Wade said with feeling. “Like everything’s going to be okay.”

Peter held his breath, touched. He’d planned to come in, make his apologies (and excuses), leave, and go find out where the Alpha Lab was. He didn’t expect his resolve to be so tested by Wade sitting there being freaking cute.

“Can we go out on a date tonight?” Peter asked impulsively. “I know it’s late, but… anywhere you want.” It was dangerously open-ended, especially with Wade, but Peter was feeling kind of reckless.

Wade loved dates. He lit up. But just as quickly, his expression dropped, his shoulders with it. “Sorry. There’s a thing I gotta do. Cap texted me a half hour ago.”

Peter sighed. Maybe it was for the best. “I see,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Unsexy underbelly, huh? When do you have to be there?” He tucked his face into Wade’s neck.

Wade’s arm moved behind him, likely due to Wade consulting his Adventure Time watch. “Um, ten minutes ago. So.”

Peter kissed his neck. “Yeah. So.”

He didn’t move. He should have moved. He should have pushed away the temptation to pull off Wade’s shirt. And he definitely shouldn’t have started kissing lower and lower down Wade’s chest and torso.

But what could Peter say? He was still kind of pissed at Cap.

In the end, Peter made Wade a full hour late before Wade was tripping out of the apartment in a panic, half dressed with only one katana and his least favorite gun. He came back about five minutes later, shamefaced, to collect the rest of his suit and equipment before sprinting out of his apartment again.

The whole experience made Peter feel giddy, annoyed, guilty, and supremely energized. Now that his reason for winding down the night was gone, Peter snuck out to patrol again for another hour. He didn’t dare any longer. He climbed back into the apartment through the bathroom window, slipping his suit into the hidden compartment of his work bag.

For a second, he considered tempting fate and not hiding it at all. An open work bag wouldn’t last five minutes around a nosy merc, even one that respected his boundaries, and Peter almost wanted him to snoop. He almost wanted to force the conversation, the revelation. He wanted to see if Wade liked Peter-The-Vigilante even half as much as Peter-The-Normie. Peter was sorely tempted to leave his mask visible in the main compartment of his bag, knowing the bit of red would draw in Wade’s sharp and honed instincts like moths to a flame.

It was daring, reckless. Maybe even stupid.

But Peter didn’t do it in the end. He tucked his suit away like a good boy and conked out on the bed, barely on top of it in the first place. Web slinging was exhausting. He woke up only when weight started shifting on the bed and hands started tucking him under the blankets. Then the side of the bed dipped and stayed dipped.

When Wade didn’t get under the covers with him, Peter opened his eyes to see Wade sitting there, fully equipped. He was missing only his mask, which was fisted in his left hand. He was rubbing the bridge of his nose with his right.

But when Peter made a questioning noise at him, Wade gave him a small smile and leaned over him. Peter was shushed and petted and kissed contently back to REM land.

He woke up again an hour later to a noise he couldn’t place. This awakening wasn’t as pleasant. After all, now he was alone. Wade was nowhere to be seen and the bed was cold.

And Peter’s arms were handcuffed to the headboard.

Confused, Peter flexed his fingers. He didn’t do anything about it for a while. He just sat there, confused by the sight of his hands ringed by fluffy pink.

Then, finally, he heard the sound that woke him up—his phone. Sparing a moment of thanks for his unnatural flexibility, Peter twisted and slapped his foot on the cell, sticking to it, and then brought it back to his lap.

Like most people, Peter had set up alerts and news filters on his phone. Unlike most people, all of his alerts were every variation of the word “Spider-Man”, including “spider menace”. And for some reason, his alerts were going off like mad, sounding some stories (or set of stories) that were going around and around the internet.

Using his toe to scroll down, Peter scanned quickly through the results. It was mostly fringe blogs ranting about how Spider-Man was now a villain and “here was the proof”.

Right, the proof—you would think he would have remembered picking an ill-advised fight with the Defenders. Like he’d ever do that. They all fought dirty, especially the Catholic.

Whatever. It was better he was awake anyway. There were things he needed to do, algorithms he needed to check. He still had to figure out what and where the Alpha Lab was. He was stuck on square 1 on that front. The labs he knew best were at his building, and there was no such thing as an Alpha Lab there. All research labs were underground and labeled alphabetically, but A level was a decontamination zone—no lab in sight. He was starting to think Alpha Lab was on another Oscorp property entirely, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to narrow it down in time. There were thirty Oscorp properties in the city alone, and he’d only ruled out half of those on his patrols that day.

He only had eighteen hours left before Gwen went to Alias Investigations without him. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have even slept. And now he really, really didn’t have time for this game of Wade’s, whatever it was.

His phone suddenly started ringing—speak of the devil.

He answered. “Hey,” he said flatly.

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” she demanded.

“Um. I’m a little tied up right now.” Peter looked up, eyeing the handcuffs again. Wade wasn’t the type of guy to spring a new thing on him without _some_ conversation. Even when Wade started blindfolding him, he’d prefaced it by talking to him for a solid hour about what he was really consenting to.

Wade jumping straight to bondage, even vanilla bondage, was wildly out of character. Joking about it, yes. Committing it? No.

“Make time,” Gwen told him. “Spider-Man just attacked Jessica Jones.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Not you too-”

“Shut up,” Gwen snapped. “Watch the video I’m sending you, _and don’t hang up_.”

Peter obeyed, clicking the link she sent him. The video was bad—fuzzy, shaking, and taken at a weird angle—but it captured a brutal, ugly fight on an extremely dark sidewalk. The two figures were evenly matched. Jessica—it had to be Jessica, what with that potty mouth—ended up winning while the loser ran off.

“Looks like a weirdo in a suit.” A Spider-Man suit, he noticed. As grainy as the video was, it did capture one semi-clear frame of his iconic spider. “Why do you care? Better yet, why do you think I care?”

“Peter, it’s- ,” Gwen said. She sucked in a shaky breath. “It’s Harry.”

Peter sat up. At the same time, Peter’s head shot up to the headboard. Finally, he could see a pink Post-It with the Deadpool symbol drawn on it. It had been stabbed into the wall with a hunting knife. _Sorry, babe_.

“It’s Harry, I know it’s Harry. The video quality was bad but… Harry’s _here_ and he’s wearing that suit and he’s ripping the offices apart.” Gwen’s words were hushed, tripping over each other. “Peter, he’s completely out of control.”

Peter wrenched his arms so hard, one of the poles in the head board popped off, almost striking him in the head. He caught it, then used it as leverage to crack open his handcuffs. “Where.”

“He’s back at Oscorp, on the 34th floor. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“No. No no no, don’t do that. Gwen, you need to leave,” Peter said urgently. “You need to _hide_.”

“Too late. I think- I think he just saw me.”

“Gwen, don’t hang up on me. Gwen, I-” She hung up. “Shit,” Peter said with feeling. He grabbed his bag and leapt out of the window.

 

-

 

Wade hooked the comm around his ear. “This better be good. I left my boyfriend handcuffed to the bed for this.” He made it sound salacious instead of a necessary protective measure.

He missed his ear twice. Petey was gonna be so mad at him.

“That’s more about your love life than I needed to know,” Clint commented. Like a true bro, he kept his eyes fixed to the floor instead of Wade’s exposed face, only looking up when Wade was finished. “There’s a private line and there’s a public line. Everyone’s on the public line. Click once to get the public line, click twice to get to the private line. You need to talk to someone privately? Ask. If Cap or Iron Man approve it, FRIDAY will handle the transfer.”

“Brace yourself,” Natasha warned him, still sharpening a knife.

Even with the warning, Wade flinched away from the chaotic explosion of people arguing, of three or four separate conversations criss crossing over each other.

“-FRIDAY, remind me never to give this many idiots access to our comm lines,” said Tony Stark, like he wasn’t contributing to the noise.

“-isn’t like Spidey at all,” Johnny was arguing.

“Where did the video come from?” Scott was asking. “Hello? Can anyone hear me on this thing? I said, ‘where did the video come from?’”

“They’ve been going around in circles like this for the last twenty minutes,” Natasha told Wade. “You’ll get used to it.”

“You got the video, right?” Clint asked, like Wade wasn’t one of the first of them to see it.

Steve had called him to report in earlier that night. By the time he’d separated from Petey, Steve, Stark, Natasha, and the other Wilson had already gathered to develop a response to the video—they had to take Spidey into their custody.

It was gonna be quiet. Quick. _Surgical_ , even. They headed to the Avengers Compound to suit up and gear up, and that was where everything started to go wrong. Right on the Avengers’ doorsteps was everyone from the Immortal Iron Fist to the Thing to their own Ant Man. Everyone had seen the video, and everyone was reporting in—and there was no way they were going to let the Avengers handle this quietly. It took an entire hour just to get everyone calmed down, up to speed, and, more importantly, not about to pursue Spidey on their own.

Letting these disasters share phone numbers was a bad idea.

While Steve adjusted the plan to include all of the interlopers too, Wade went home to pick up his sniper rifle. And handcuff the love of his life to the bed so he didn’t do something stupid like try to run down Harry Osborn himself. Then he met his partners for the night, they passed him a comm, and boom, too many goddamn voices in his head.

 “-One of my shithead neighbors recorded it,” Jessica was responding. “She stood there, just watching me get my ass beat. By the time I realized what was going on, she’d uploaded it.”

“FRIDAY is already suppressing the video,” Stark was saying, “but people have saved it. It keeps popping up.”

“Make it stop,” Steve ordered.

“Normally, I’d take that as a compliment, but, hey, news flash! _I don’t control the internet_!”

A separate conversation was happening between other members of the Avengers as well as the Four. “-doesn’t make any sense. Why would Webs attack Jessica?” Scott asked dubiously.

“Does it matter?” Wanda countered.

“I think it’s because she confronted him at work,” Reed hypothesized.

“No,” Wade barked, and it was sudden enough and brutal enough that everyone else closed their goddamn mouths. “Webs doesn’t kill. It’s a cornerstone of his fucking origin story. Look it up.”

The comm stayed silent for a moment. Then Jessica responded. “That’s fair. I’m sure I pissed him off, but not that much.”

“Well, could it be someone else?” Ben asked. That was the outcome they all wanted.

“Hey, Reed would know how many Spideys there are,” Johnny said. “He made his suits!”

“I made him many, many suits over the years,” Reed argued. “You can’t just ask me that.”

“No,” Stark said. “All of the fake Spideys have been accounted for. I think we have to operate under the assumption that this was the real deal. And when we get close enough, FRIDAY and I will verify. So chill out and stay on target.”

“Something's wrong with Spidey,” Sue said very quietly.

“The kind of wrong that has him trying to choke out his enemies?” Matt asked, equally quiet.

“No,” Jessica said. “He didn’t- He pushed me, he didn’t- He’s not the one killing Oscorp people.”

“What Oscorp people?” Clint interjected. He was ignored.

“Jessica,” Luke said, “you’ve been leaning on Harry Osborn this whole time as a suspect.”

“I said he was probably covering it up, not that he was the one doing it,” she protested. “Come on! This is Webhead.”

“And we’re living in a brave new world of mind control, brainwashing, and weapons that can literally drive people insane,” Rhodes broke in with finality. “You’re all tearing each other apart, trying to make sense of the whos and whys here when motive is purely secondary. Tony’s right, we have to shut him down and we have to shut him down now.”

“Sure, sure, sure,” Scott said. “And why are we taking orders from the military again?”

This dumped gasoline on the fire. People started shouting again, raising their voices to be heard. But before Wade could do something drastic, like cram a knife in his ear drum, a high pitched noise went through the line, piercing through the arguments.

After a moment, it died, having made its point.

“Ladies and gentlemen, zip your lips before you all get muted,” Stark said self-importantly. “Thank you. The media’s been tracking this, and Spidey was spotting smashing into Oscorp Tower on the 34th floor. They haven’t seen him come out since. The police are swarming the building but it’s on lockdown. With any luck, we’ll be able to corner him, subdue him, and figure out what the hell is going on.”

“He’s not well,” Jessica insisted doggedly. “He’s not all there.”

“Then we’ll get him the best doctors my money can buy.” The comm quieted down after that, like Tony’s declaration was the one thing they could all agree on.

“Listen up, people,” Steve said. “This is how it’s going to go down…”

 

-

 

Peter raced through Manhattan, one eye on the buildings around him and one eye to the alerts on his phone. There were many reports, some even accurate to his breakneck journey to Oscorp. He’d stuck on his mask first before trying to change into his suit midair. This earned him quite a few tongue in cheek comments about laundry day on Twitter.

But the majority of his alerts placed Spider-Man in Oscorp still. He hoped they were true.

Peter landed in an alleyway across the street. Oscorp was surrounded by cops, and they had their attention focused on the building. A spotlight highlighted Harry’s entryway on the 34th floor, revealing jagged glass. Other lights moved carefully up and down the building, as if searching for someone who knew how to stick to walls.

Peter needed to find another way in. Fortunately, this was one building he knew like the back of his hand.

He shoved his street clothes on over his suit, tucking his mask in his pocket. Emerging from the alley, he speed-walked just slow enough not to catch the cops’ attentions.

They were swarming the lobby and every access point on the street, but they hadn’t yet thought to include the underground garage. Peter walked quickly over the car entryway, hopping over the partition and peeking into the empty security box next to it. He jogged deeper underground, half-skipping over entire parking spaces as he tried to identify where all the cameras were at.

Finally, he reached the elevators. A second set of heavy double doors had closed over them for the lockdown. Satisfied that he was out of sight of the cameras, he expertly fired a wad of web at the closest one, disabling their view. Then he rushed over to the emergency doors, forcing them open with a little effort. In comparison, the normal set were a piece of cake.

Before long, he had carefully made his way into the elevator shaft, scuttling up the closest wall.

Peter wished he could say this was his first time in the elevator shaft. It wasn’t, but this one stood out in a way he wasn’t expecting, as the usually noisy shafts were eerily silent apart from metallic groaning of wires under tension. The building was well and truly shut down.

Peter spared a worried thought for the cleaning staff and the occasional worker burning the midnight oil. He hoped they had the sense to stay away.

Above him, Peter heard the sound of shattering windows, breaking furniture, and, briefly, a woman’s scream. Abandoning his crawl, Peter got to his feet and launched himself up the elevator shafts, bag flapping behind him.

He was at the right level in seconds. He hastily pried open the elevator on the 34th floor, rolling onto the floor in a low crouch. There, he stayed, spidey sense buzzing fitfully.

He could hear a dragging noise and heavy breathing to his left. It was getting louder and more labored. Heart thudding in his ears, he stretched out an arm, his two middle fingers hovering at the ready. And he was ready, he thought. Ready for anything.

But maybe not ready for the very odd sight of Gwen Stacy straining and dragging an unconscious Spider-Man out of an office, a white rifle slung over her left shoulder.

“Oh,” Peter said out loud. Gwen jumped. Her foot caught on the rug. Her grip slipped, and Harry spilled out on the floor, limp. When she whirled on him, Peter shrugged, coming up out of his crouch. “Put up your hands and drop the Spidey?”

At that, she giggled helplessly and then snorted. She clapped both hands over her mouth, her blue eyes bright with tears.

Yeah. Peter could relate.

“Oh, shut up and help me,” she said finally.

Relieved, Peter did just that. They both grabbed one of Harry’s arms, hauling it over their shoulders. Peter didn’t know about Gwen, but he knew he was having a hard enough time keeping a good grip on Harry’s sweaty spandex. It didn’t help that Harry was absolutely limp and drooling. He looked like hell on top of that. His sweaty hair was standing straight up, and there were huge purple bags under each eye.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, noticing they were shuffling off to the stairs.

“The best labs in the building.”

Peter automatically looked down. “Genetics?”

“Guess again,” Gwen huffed. “You know the big boss has the one with the best toys. Does your ID card open up all of the stairways to his office? Because mine doesn’t.”

Peter’s eyes swung up to the ceiling. He swallowed harshly. “Breaking into the CEO’s private labs might be a crime worse than knocking out his only son,” he warned her.

Gwen shot him a dead-eyed stare. Peter held up underneath it for a full three seconds. “Fine. Let’s take an elevator.”

“Elevators are shut down, genius,” she challenged him.

“The prerogative of the executives of this company trump any emergency procedures,” Peter muttered, redirecting their three man jig.

Gwen beamed. “Ha! I knew there was a secret executive elevator.”

Yes. There was a secret executive elevator. It was hidden behind a door that looked like an electronics closet only. Instead, it hid a small cart that only a few people had access to. Peter only knew the codes out of necessity—Harry was notoriously bad with passwords.

“So, explain the gun,” Peter asked while they shuffled closer to their destination.

“It’s just a sedative. The rats have been… harder to catch. Sometimes we need to hit them while they’re running.” Gwen twitched her head with faux-casualness. “When I heard the news, I thought it might be helpful, so… I came up with it. I got to the 25th floor before the elevators stopped working. I had to take the stairs the rest of the way. And trust me, today was not supposed to be leg day.”

“You shot your boyfriend,” Peter said, feeling the need to point it out.

Gwen tipped her chin up defensively. “After the crap he’s given me this week, it was strangely cathartic.”

“Remind me to never date you,” Peter mumbled.

They were silent up until Peter revealed the elevator, until all three of them were inside. Then, as the doors closed, Gwen let out a nervous, whistling sigh. “Peter, I think Harry’s American Son.”

The elevator lurched upward. Peter didn’t say anything right away. He’d had his theories. His favorite was that American Son was some senator’s kid, and the senator bribed Oscorp to let his terminally ill child get an extremely low dose of Vitanova before it was people-ready. It was still bad, but… good intentions would have been there.

But Harry didn’t have cancer. There was absolutely no reason for him to be dosed with such a dangerous experimental drug—besides, of course, someone deciding that they wanted it done. Peter was struggling to see any good intentions there.

“No,” Peter heard himself say distantly.

“All the symptoms are there. Aggression, for starters…”

“No,” Peter said again.

Gwen continued anyway, saying, “Dissociative episodes. Hallucinations too. Makes a person very, very suggestible. Makes them doubt themselves, their memories-”

“But the suit? Why?” he demanded. “What, someone’s making him think he’s Spider-Man? And why come here?”

“I don’t know why he’s wearing the suit. But I think that, deep down, he knows either the cure is here or he knows the danger is here and he’s trying to stop it.” Gwen blinked rapidly, pulling Harry’s arm closer to her.

Peter didn’t think she noticed Peter was shouldering most of her boyfriend’s weight. She was too distracted. She looked exhausted and not a little desperate.

“There’s enough of Harry in here still,” she insisted. “I know I can save him.”

A million questions bloomed across Peter’s mind. He settled on the one. “What’s the plan?”

“Building it as I go,” Gwen said with false cheer. “Say, the building is on stranger danger lockdown, right?”

The flippant nickname was for the security lockdown associated with hostile parties. The whole building had likely been on lockdown since Harry slammed his way back into the building.

“Well, it’s definitely not the oopsie poopsie pandemic lockdown,” Peter shot back wryly. That only happened when an environmental contagion was released. It involved gas and an automatic call to the CDC.

“So the building is locked down from the tenth level up, right?” she asked. “So we have time. We won’t be bothered for a while by anyone.”

Peter thought about how quickly he’d zipped up the elevator shaft and shifted uncomfortably. Sure, security had to be stonewalling the cops in the lobby. They wouldn’t let them in without a warrant, and, even if there was one, security couldn’t let them in higher than that floor without an access code none of them were paid enough to have.

But none of that meant anything to an enhanced individual who wasn’t afraid to break a few laws. All of their bulletproof, double-paned windows were absolutely useless against a Hulk, a Thor, or an Iron Man.

“This is- this is all over the news. The Avengers have to be coming.” In fact, he hoped they were. “We can tell them what’s going on when they get here. They can treat him.” Peter didn’t want to think of what would happen when Harry’s sedatives wore off. If that video was any proof, Vitanova gave Harry the strength to go head-to-head with Jessica, who was well known for being incredibly strong. He didn’t like his odds against her. He liked his odds against a wild Harry even less.

Yeah, Peter was more than ready to hand the reins over to the Avengers. Let them handle Harry. He and Gwen could go back to trying to figure out where the Alpha Lab was and exposing who did this to Harry in the first place.

But Gwen was eyeing him weirdly, like maybe she wasn’t on board with that plan. “Treat him? With what? With who?”

“What are you implying?” he asked.

Gwen sighed. “Okay. Say we give up Harry,” she said, at least willing to walk him through this. “Then what?

“They take him away. Secure him. Maybe at the Tower.”

“Maybe at the Raft,” she corrected him. “And how long will it take me to convince them I know what’s afflicting him?”

Not sure where she was coming from, Peter tried to answer her very carefully. “I mean… you’ll have to show them your data. Break your NDA again. They’ll have to verify it. But since you showed Reed your data already-”

“Yeah, already having a problem with that right there,” Gwen interrupted him.  “Richards wouldn’t even see me. I couldn’t get past the lobby attendant at the Baxter Building, let alone show him my data. I tried others too. Emailed Bruce Banner. Got an autoreply from him. Called Helen Cho, but she’s on sabbatical. I reached out to Dr. Connors and Dr. Warren and even Charles Xavier. But I got nothing and nowhere in seventy-two hours, Peter.” She white-knuckled Harry’s arm. “So forget having anyone who understands this, okay? How much time do you think it would take to convince them that I know what’s going on? That the data is real? Minutes? Hours? Or days? _He doesn’t have time for that_.”

“You want to try and cure him yourself,” Peter realized.

“Ever since I found American Son on my research server, I’ve been synthesizing… something. Something that will bind with Vitanova, rendering it inert.” Her hand dropped to her bag. “I’ve been carrying it with me the whole time. I didn’t trust Oscorp not to destroy it before I could be sure it worked-”

“You want to inject Harry with something that’s untested?” Peter balked at that.

“It’s tested. I just-“ Gwen seemed defensive and frustrated in equal measures. “I don’t know how long he’s been exposed, but he’s already reached the terminal symptomatic stage. If the drug isn’t flushed out of his system now, it will destroy his brain matter, and that will destroy everything about him, everything that makes Harry Harry. But I can treat him here and now—right now, if we can get into Norman’s labs. But if the Avengers catch Harry, he’s done.” She looked at him then, pleadingly. “The Avengers cannot be allowed to find Harry.”

With their powers and their tech, it would be more reasonable to ask an ant to stop a flood. He told her as much.

“I know. I know,” she said, voice breaking. “I don’t know what to do. If I could just… make him invisible or something, everything would be fine. I just need… time. That’s all.”

Like most things Gwen asked for, it wasn’t an unreasonable request. A plan started forming in Peter’s head. It was gonna suck. He was going to hate it so freaking much. But if Harry’s life was on the line, what other choice did Peter have?

“What if,” Peter said slowly, “we made them think Harry was somewhere else? Just one step ahead of them?”

The elevator opened with a poignant ding.

Peter always thought Harry’s office was wastefully big, suitable for five workers instead of just the one. Norman’s was worse. It was spread out over two floors, connected only by a staircase. The first floor was his large intimidating office, which was usually guarded by a receptionist. The second floor, the highest floor in the entire building, was Norman’s lab.

In all of his time at Oscorp, Peter had only been in Norman’s office ten times, and his lab only once. He tried his best not to repeat either experience, but… here they were.

Wordlessly, Gwen and Peter pushed past the empty receptionist table and walked straight to the lab, tugging Harry in tow.  

The full lab was something else entirely. It was impressive, intimidating. It was gleaming, full of equipment and lab stations and many variants of Oscorp tech that they held the patent to but didn’t sell to outside companies. One such technology was a submersion tank, which Norman had developed in 2011. Both the technology and the fluids within it were extraordinary feats of biotechnology, able to induce greater healing of the patient at over ten times the speed. It was incredible. Norman had won awards and major distinctions for it. The technology was reviewed extensively in colleges all around the world as a game changing invention in the field of medical technology.

It was also a dead end and nonstarter product for Norman. He didn’t sell more than fifty of them and refused to develop any more. If the rumors were true, Norman had found out that his tank had already been outclassed in South Korea. Helen Cho’s prototype of the Regeneration Cradle would need five more years of development to become viable, but the initial findings were extremely promising.

Instead of embracing divergent technologies doing good in the same fields, he pulled the plug on the project, and his submersion tank served no one. No one, except maybe Norman himself.

After some debate, Gwen decided they should take advantage of this, so they lifted Harry together, setting him inside. “I haven’t seen one of these since grad school. Give me a second to figure this out,” Gwen said.

Nodding, Peter slipped out of sight.

Fifteen minutes later, all of Harry’s drips were appropriately inserted and an oxygen mask was fixed over his head. The monitor attached to the tech was flashing calm lights. All systems were a go.

“How much time do you need?” Peter asked from behind her.

Gwen was inserting a liquid into one of the tubes. It was a deep blue. “Twelve hours—fourteen would be better.” She did a double take when Peter rounded the tank to look at the monitor. “Um.”

Peter tensed. “He, uh.” He plucked at the suit. “He had another Spidey suit. In his office.” It was such a bad, bad lie. “Plus his phone.” He lifted it up, hoping proof of one suggested proof of the other.

It didn’t. “Right,” Gwen said slowly. She shook her head. “Chances are, Stark’s already tracking it.”

That was the idea. He turned on Harry’s phone, typing in the same password he used on everything—his mother’s birthday. It lit up in his hand with alerts, missed calls, and new messages.

Harry had his own news filters set on local news and superheroes. According to many social media reports, the Avengers were mobilizing. Half-heard conversations from rooftops and blurry pictures were going viral.

_You heard it here first_ , one tweet proclaimed gleefully. _Spidey’s gone darkside and the Avengers are going to whoop his ass._

Peter frowned grimly at the pictured sightings across New York. One post showed off the iconic Iron Man trail across the sky, illuminating Iron Man, War Machine, and Falcon. Another boasted a blurry picture of Deadpool standing with Black Widow and Hawkeye on a rooftop in Chinatown. Yet another captured Captain America striding out of Baxter Tower with three of the Four, Wanda, and Daredevil following.

All of these messages were from just minutes ago.

For a second, all Peter knew was dread. Then he shook himself out of it. No. No, he could use this. He had to get ahead of this.

Using Harry’s phone, he typed in Tony Stark’s phone number, sending him a text.

_I know you know where I am. Meet me on the roof._

It sounded brave. Like a challenge that a darkside Spidey would level at his former friends, maybe. Like its sender wasn’t dealing with sweaty palms and shaky knees and a distinctly awful feeling like he was about to fall without superpowers.

But would they buy it? Peter compared the suits. Harry’s looked decently similar to his own. It lacked the Kevlar reinforcement Peter had invested in around two years ago. It was just spandex. And Harry had had a pair of webshooters too. They were odd looking and fragile.

Curious, Peter reached for Harry’s wrist, pressing the button. Silly string shot out, hitting the space between Gwen’s toes.

“Is this really the time for that?” she asked, disapproving.

“Sorry.”

Shaking her head, she closed the tank around Harry. Peter backed up, watching. It slowly started to fill up with liquid. Peter didn’t understand the tech or science behind it, but Gwen was using Norman’s patented submersion fluid to counteract the many negative side effects of Vitanova.

This was going to work.

Only when the fluid had reached the top did Peter see Gwen’s haunted expression, her eyes glued to the limp form of her boyfriend. She met his gaze—his lens, rather—and closed her eyes briefly. “Walk me through the plan again.”

Peter was happy to. “You treat Harry. I’ll take the elevator and go down to the executive parking garage and grab Harry’s favorite car. I’ll make some calls from his car, make sure Iron Man gets some good pings from the phone towers.” Peter pointed away—to the wall, to the outside, to the edge of the city. “I’ll peel out, make a lot of noise, catch a lot of attention, and then drive out of town as fast as I can.”

Gwen sagged, covering her face with her hands. She hadn’t liked the plan the first time either. “I just-” She bit off whatever she was going say. She turned to face him, expression conflicted. “You’re a good friend, Peter. What you’re doing is… so incredibly dangerous.”

Peter didn’t need the reminder. He nodded to her instead. “Good luck, Dr. Stacy.”

He headed downstairs, feeling her eyes. He crossed Norman’s office without hurrying, heading straight to the executive elevator. He pushed the button, calling it to him. The doors opened.

When Gwen’s eyes finally left him, he hurried to the stairs instead, letting the elevator close on no one.

He went up, swapping phones quickly and making a call.

Wade picked up on the third ring. “Holla atcha boy, dis is DP. Please leave a message after the gun shot or forever hold your-”

“Wade,” Peter growled quietly. He had about a flight and a half until he was on the roof.

“Petey!” There was a swooshing noise, like he’d switched hands. “ _Sweetheart._ Sorry for pretending to be a machine. This isn’t a good time right now- hey. How are you calling me right now?”

“I’m not at your apartment,” Peter whispered, eyeing the roof access door. “I got out of the handcuffs. No thanks to you.”

Wade let out a huge, regretful sigh. “Petey-pie, apple of my eye, I am so so-”

“Shut up. I know what you’re doing. You want to make this up to me? Then sit this out.”

Wade hesitated. “…no can do, sweet thing.”

“Yes can do,” Peter snapped quietly. “Not every Avenger mission needs-”

“This isn’t about the Avengers, Peter,” Wade fired back. “This is about Spidey and stopping him from doing something he’s gonna regret for the rest of his life.”

Too late, the penny dropped. Peter wanted to slap himself. “Wade, you think- You think Harry’s Spidey too?” Peter cradled his face with his hand, groaning. “That’s… so _stupid._ ”

“Is not,” Wade said defensively. “I’ll have you know I have a lot of evidence to back up my outlandish claims.”

And Peter had seen it all, completely failing to recognize what it was. “Yeah, circumstantial! And none of it means anything because- because-” A vice was clamped tight around his lungs.

God, he should have done this sooner. Better. He had no choice now. All he had to do was say it. Any minute now.

Peter sucked in a ragged breath before muttering, “Because I’m- I’m Spider-Man?” His heart thudded frantically in his ears and throat, threatening to break free. This feeling sucked.

And there was nothing but silence on the other end.

Then Wade finally responded. “…Is that a question or a statement?”

Peter was stunned. Wade didn’t believe him. “A statement,” Peter hissed, hearing the smile in Wade’s voice. “I’m Spider-Man.”

“Right. Well. Damn. I hope you make bank off of Osborn. Though, judging by your clothes, probably not.”

What? Peter wasn’t getting _paid_ to pretend to be Spider-Man. “Wade-”

“No, Peter,” Wade said, interrupting him. “I’m not the one who needs to back off. _You are._ This is beyond job security. You need to knock it off, okay? Webs is known for recruiting people to wear his shit. I know six other schmucks who have claimed at one point or another that they were Spidey, and these guys have powers, training, or tech to back it up. What do _you_ have?”

Peter closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…Spidey powers.”

“That’s cute,” Wade said flatly. “Fucking adorable.”

Peter threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, how about I put this into words you will understand?” He charged up the rest of the stairs, coming to a stop right in front of the roof access. He jiggled the doorknob. It was locked—easily broken. “Go home. Drop the damn assignment. Because if you don’t…” Peter hesitated, face burning. “If you don’t, you and I are done.”

It was a horrible ultimatum, and Peter hated himself for laying it out there. Wade was silent. Quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m not backing down,” Peter insisted when the silence dragged on for too long.

“Oh, honey. I know,” Wade said softly. His voice was raw and tight, like he was trying to control himself, but there wasn’t even a bit of anger in it. Peter wished there was. “Just… be safe. Okay? _Be safe._ ”

Before Peter could say anything, Wade hung up on him. Peter hung onto the wall for a moment, feeling as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus with a boxing glove made of knives. His eyes stung with heated, unshed tears.

Peter pressed his head against the door, mouth thinning. He banged it against the surface once. No. No, he had to focus. He was behind on his timeline. He was-

God. _Wade_. Peter smashed his palm against his mouth, suffocating the noise that wanted to come out.

Then his phone rang again. But it wasn’t Wade. It wouldn’t ever be Wade. Not anymore. _Peter did that_.

Peter answered. “Hey,” he said thickly.

“Hey,” Gwen broke in. “I was gonna ignore it, but… I can’t. I really can’t.”

“Can’t ignore what?”

“You’re Spider-Man,” she blurted out in awe. “The real one. The real deal.” Peter didn’t respond, too numb to. “And… you didn’t take the elevator, did you?”

“I’m giving them what they want,” Peter said. “Me.”

“Okay,” Gwen said slowly, blowing out a breath. “So how does this fit in with the plan?”

Peter could have kissed her. Focus returned, he swayed back, away from the door. “The plan isn’t changing.”

“You’re going to turn yourself in?” she asked carefully.

Peter snorted. “So they can unmask me, figure out I’m not Harry, then restart this whole process? No. They’ll just think I’m covering for him.” Wade certainly did.

“You’re going to have them chase you. On foot. In the air.”

“Well away from here,” Peter tried to assure her.

It didn’t. Gwen’s laugh was pained, humorless. “Soldiers, assassins, and mutants. If they think you’re hurting people and you don’t let them catch you, they’re going to kill you.” Mournfully, she muttered, “At least in a car, you had a chance.”

The hopelessness and the fear in her voice was too much. More to the point, it was galvanizing. Peter found himself standing up straighter, hand fisting at his side. Breaking up with Wade was a Peter Parker problem. But saving Harry was a Spider-Man problem, and he couldn’t back down. And Spider-Man was so much stronger than Peter Parker.

“I’ve been shot at. I’ve been chased. I have had everything from magic to boulders tossed at me. They will not catch me, Gwen. You will have time to save Harry. I promise you that.”

With that, he hung up on her. He reached out, twisting the knob of the door in front of him until the metal warped and the lock was no longer. He pushed through. Head held high, he walked out onto the roof just as Iron Man touched down. Cold wind ripped through the air mercilessly, held back by nothing.

Iron Man wasn’t alone. Scattered across the rooftop were a wide variety of former allies and friends—Scarlet Witch, floating and imposing behind her red glow. Falcon, perched on top of a transformer with his wings still extended. War Machine, standing behind Tony Stark with crossed arms. Torch, hovering above them all, orange glow not quite obscuring his disappointed face.

Tony was the one who approached him. “Hey. Got your text.” His mask opened up, exposing a wary, hopeful expression. “Ready to chat, Harry?”

“Harry who?” was Peter’s only response.

Tony chuckled, like it was an inside joke. “Right. Right,” he said indulgently. He swept a gaze across the assembled heroes before swinging it back to Peter. “You’re… unwell. Right? You wouldn’t have hurt all those people in your right mind. I know you.”

“All those people?” Peter echoed.

“Jessica Jones,” Johnny recited unhappily. “Dana Smith. Terry Smith. Samantha Takahashi. Laura Santiago-”

“I didn’t do any of that,” Peter snapped at him, horrified.

“We have video evidence of at least one, Harry,” Sam said, “and enough evidence in your apartment to tie you to the rest.”

Peter absorbed that, looking down at his feet. _Oh, Harry_ , he thought sadly. _What did you do?_

“Please, just… turn yourself in, buddy,” Tony said gently, closing the space between them with another metallic step. “I can’t say I understand what’s going on with you, but… You’ll get the best doctors, the best treatment. I promise. I’ll take care of you.”

Peter bowed his head further. Everything was so… _wrong_. How had it gotten so bad so quickly?

His hands fisted at his sides. It didn’t matter. They were long past talking. A month ago, he could have cleared things up, maybe. He could have unmasked and told them what was actually going on. But that was a month ago when his friends knew he would do the right thing and have the right intentions. When his friends actually listened to him.

Now, there was no trust. Even if he did somehow convince them he was Spider-Man and he unmasked himself now, the Avengers would still storm Oscorp and seize Harry before treatment even started, probably even taking Peter into custody in the process.

He could see this tension not in Tony, who pleaded with him, but in everyone else surrounding him—including Sam and Johnny, who he once counted on as friends. No, they were _ready_ for a fight.

And, in the end, Tony was right. Harry needed the best doctors, the best treatment. But the best treatment was in the hands of the one Oscorp scientist who knew both the disease and the cure.

He didn’t want to do this. He really, really didn’t want to do this. But he had no choice.

“He’s running,” Wanda warned darkly. The others shifted in response. And Peter?

Peter dove head first into the open air, throwing his first web of the night.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter folded over as he took a tree branch to the stomach. Harry’s phone slipped from his hand. He shot out a web and jerked it back to him, then leapt straight up in the air, pocketing it in the belt under his suit.

Two seconds too late, the Thing pounded the ground underneath him, turning a portion of Central Park’s landscape into a crater. “Come on, Spidey!” Ben pleaded.

Shaking his head mutely, Peter shot him in the face, using his shoulder as a launch pad. He left Ben behind like that, struggling to pull webs out of his eyes.

It had been forty-five minutes since he jumped off Oscorp tower, and Peter felt every second of it. He hadn’t stopped running since.

Just outside of Central Park, Wanda was waiting for him, floating over Columbus Circle. Cool, calm, and collected, she was the Avenger he knew least. The Avenger he wanted to tangle with the least. Grimacing at her stance, the growing red glow of her hands, he fumbled around his belt again before tossing something at her.

Wanda caught the web cartridge with her powers. “The great Spider-Man results to flinging empty trash at his enemies?” she quipped, unimpressed.

“Empty? Who said it was empty?”

On cue, the tampered cartridge exploded rapidly, pushing past her magic. She yelped, losing control of the powers that kept her aloft. She fell all of five feet, stumbling untidily on the sidewalk. The still expanding weight of Peter’s webs followed her down mercilessly, drenching her instantly.

Peter silently perched on the side of the USS Maine National Monument, watching worriedly. He had never done that before and was concerned that he might have gone too far. The tiny, frustrated scream she let out had him cringing, slithering deeper into the shadows of the statue. But the mutant witch was back on her feet quickly, keeping her hands and arms stretched away from her torso. Peter didn’t blame her. In their current form, his webs were only half-solid. What they were was mostly wet and sticky, the consistency of pancake mix, and just as gross to touch.

Peter flattened against the monument slightly at the sound of one of Tony’s suits, but he needn’t have bothered. War Machine flew past him and came to a hasty stop just in front of Wanda, landing. “Um.” That was about the end of his forward momentum. His face plate popped open. “Not suffocating, right?”

Wanda scoffed. “I. Hate. _Spider-Man_ ,” she muttered. She stretched out a sticky arm to Rhodes. “Get this _off_ of me.”

“Wow.” Rhodes backed up quickly, both hands flying up. “Yeah, no. Maybe head back to base and take a shower,” he suggested. “I’ve heard that peanut butter does wonders.“

Wanda bitterly muttered her opinion of that in a different language, but complied, rising into the air. She floated off, dripping web fluid everywhere. Peter watched her go, noting she was heading deeper into Manhattan.

Rhodes watched her go too. Then, companionably, he said, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly out of control, you seem surprisingly invested in making sure we’re okay.” Without any warning, something in his back opened up and shot a net at Peter.

Peter jumped, but it would have been better if he hadn’t. Instead, the net caught him midflight, flinging him back into Central Park as it shot electricity throughout his entire body. He crashed into the ground, digging out a trench with his shoulder. By the time the shocks stopped, Peter was twitching painfully, barely able to get on his hands and knees.

Rhodes had followed him on foot. After a beat, he hunkered down next to Peter, patting his shoulder. “Are you sure you want to keep delaying the inevitable, Harry?” Peter didn’t answer, grinding his teeth together, his body trembling. “It’s okay to give up and lay down just this once. No one is going to judge you.” Despite everything, the man was kind. “If anyone does, they’ll answer to me. Okay?”

Yeah. Right. Like Peter’s ego was his issue.

Breathing shallowly, Peter got his feet underneath him. After a moment, he mirrored Rhodes’ gesture, flattening his hand over the thickened band of armor over his shoulder. He looked up at Rhodes’ honest, sincere face grimly. “I’m sorry,” he said honestly.

Rhodes frowned at him. “For what?”

Peter tightened his grip, planted a foot in Rhodes’ chest plate, and hurled all 500-ish pounds of the hero over his head and into the bushes behind him. Then he sprang to his feet, hauling ass out of Central Park to lose himself in New York’s skyscrapers. Central Park had clearly been a bad idea.

From a block away, he heard Rhodes groan, muttering, “Now you’re just making us look bad.”

Peter was still shaking, his muscles twitching spastically. Peter only had one suit that was grounded against electric attacks, and he wasn’t wearing it. Reed probably told Rhodes about it, including all the other weaknesses of his current suit.

Damn it. Fighting his friends really sucked.

 

-

 

If missed phone calls were a measurement of popularity, then Tony was the tipsy head cheerleader on prom night ready to go all the way with some lucky stud. In the last hour only, he had forty-six missed calls and twenty-nine voicemails. It was a veritable who’s who of important people and other big contenders, ranging from Everett Ross to the President of the United States.

In fact, Tony had five active attempts at the very moment. In his HUD, FRIDAY scrolled through pictures of each caller even as Tony flew high above New York City, monitoring the positions of their deployed allies.

“Busy, FRIDAY.” He scanned over the buildings below him quickly, eyes jumping from call out to call out. Most everyone was staying in their assigned parts of the city, ready to intercept Spider-Man. Most everyone, but Wade Wilson.

Color Tony fucking surprised. So the wingnut didn’t take orders! Surely no one could have predicted that totally unlikely circumstance, _Steve_.

“Boss-”

“Fine!” Tony barked. “Answer Banner’s.” Fuming silently, he waited for FRIDAY to patch the call through. He didn’t bother with a hello. “You know, this would go a lot faster if you were here.”

“Right, like that’s what you need in a heated situation—the big guy,” Bruce groused back at him. In the background, Tony could hear smatterings of isiXhosa.

That was it—Tony was officially jealous! He would love to be in Wakanda right about now instead of being here… doing _this_.

Officially, Bruce was briefly stepping in as a scientific liaison between the United States and Wakanda to discuss where the two countries may partner together in the future. Unofficially, Bruce was there to gawk at Princess Shuri’s new inventions. She’d named him specifically for the position, loftily claiming that it was because Bruce made a good fangirl.

In talking to T’Challa, though, Tony had learned it was because Bruce was one of maybe five people in the entire world who could even begin to understand what she was doing. Genius was isolating, and Shuri valued having someone to talk to about her work from an outsider perspective, even if that someone was “desperately and woefully wrong all of the time.”

Point was, Bruce was having fun, and Bruce so rarely had fun. Tony shouldn’t want Bruce here, suffering with him. “You’re right, we do have it under control. Property damage is less than a million so far.” He’d meant it to be comforting.

“Control? That is not what it looks like on my end. Have you even tried talking to him?”

That stung. “He’s out of his mind. You know this. You saw the video. I _sent_ you the video.”

“I can’t believe I, of all people, have to say this,” Bruce said slowly, ticked off, “but when you’re dealing with out of control people, you shouldn’t use a hammer to solve all your problems.”

“Right,” Tony replied, thinking. “Speaking of which is Thor around, by any chance?”

Bruce let out an irritated hiss. Then, between gritted teeth, he said, “You’re the smartest idiot I know. Talk to the kid. Things aren’t adding up, and you know it.” Before Tony could challenge him on that, Bruce hung up.

Feeling wrong-footed, Tony shook his head, dismissing the remainder of the active calls—sorry, Pep. “FRI, now that I’ve been thoroughly chastised by one of my favorite people in the world, do you have anything else demoralizing you’d like to throw on my lap? I could go lower.”

He could always go lower. That was his superpower.

“Perhaps it’s best you review your voicemails too.”

Tony sniffed. “Cliff notes only.”

Taking what he would give her, FRIDAY rattled off a quick summary of his messages. Various government officials were demanding to know what the hell was going on. Pepper was giving him updates on how interfacing with media was going so far and was trying to very politely articulate how much she didn’t appreciate having Danny Rand as a backup, of all people. Happy called from Tahiti, completely oblivious to current events and attempting poorly to convince Tony to let him move there. Too many reporters were trying to get the scoop, straight from the source. A scammer warned him that he was locked out of his Apple account, which—pfft. _Apple._

And, finally, an unknown number had called him upwards of ten times, insisting he had evidence about Spider-Man that Tony would want to see.

“Why hello,” Tony murmured. “FRIDAY, play the message.

The voice on the other end was male and young but trying hard to sound older, something that plagued most professionals until they were about 35 and lost the will to care anymore. “Mr. Stark.”

Tony didn’t recognize the voice. He did not. But there was something about the way this kid said his name that… tugged. A little.

“This is Peter Parker, Oscorp. I have proof about Spider-Man’s identity and… well, the truth is much more complicated than I’m comfortable sharing on the phone. Call back your people for at least ten hours, and I will be happy to share everything that I-”

“Dismiss,” Tony ordered, annoyed and disappointed. Of course someone from Oscorp was going to stick their nose in this. He was surprised Norman Osborn himself wasn’t integrating himself with this somehow. The man was always thirsty for an opportunity to sneak in his two cents. “Why do normies have my private line. Block this number, FRIDAY.”

“Yes, boss.”

_Mr. Stark_ , Parker said. There was something about that utterly… Queenish inflection that made Tony’s hair stand on end. Like he was _missing_ something. God.

Needing a distraction, Tony turned back on the comms, interrupting the chatter. “Any luck getting a tracker on him?”

“Negative,” Clint responded, sounded annoyed about it. “I’m 0 for 20. I’ve spent most of the night running down my arrows.”

“I told you so,” Reed said, as insufferable as always. “Trying to stick a tracker on someone with a precognitive sense for danger doesn’t work. _Especially when he doesn’t trust you!_ ”  

“Well, shit,” Tony muttered. “Where’s his last sighting?”

Johnny was able to share that he had seen Steve tangling with him last. The kid was being good, staying on his assigned quadrant of the area instead of flying straight to the action, but Tony knew Johnny’s obedience would only last so long. The last thing they needed was another ally going rogue—and what the hell was Deadpool doing anyway?

Tony shifted trajectory, flying to Bowery and East Houston. He opened up a private line to Steve, asking for an update, but Steve didn’t respond. Tony switched over to Steve’s partner instead.

“Sam, where’s Rogers? You see him? The kid?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, sounding distracted. “Cap got knocked out with his own shield.” Sam sounded half angry, half admiring. “The kid apologized for it. Wasn’t even mad when I threw the shield back at him myself.” Sam hesitated. “He’s gone now, though.”

“I’m coming over.”

Tony found them under a mural on Houston. CREATE YOUR DESTINY was splattered across the wall in bubbly, vivid colors. Steve and Sam stood out like a sore thumb in front it with their duller, more discreet uniforms. You really couldn’t be all that discreet while carrying around Captain America’s shield, but that was an argument for another day. Steve was standing but hunched over, hands pressed against his thighs. Small crowds of people were gawking, taking photos and video of the two grounded heroes. Normally, you wouldn’t see so many people out in this area at night, but civilians were following the news and weren’t afraid to step out and watch the spectacle with their own two eyes.

Tony was immune to looky-loos, but crowds at night? Never a good sign.

And at least one person agreed with him. Sam stood behind Steve, eyes scoping out the onlookers for threats. By the time Tony landed, Sam’s focus was trained on him. He looked highly annoyed. But, for once, he wasn’t annoyed with Tony. He was annoyed with Steve.

They were arguing spiritedly about medics.

“-plenty of concussions. I’m fine.”

“Maybe it was a-okay during the Great Depression to rattle your brain in your skull,” Sam fired back, “but in the modern era, we give a damn about that sort of thing. Look, here’s your ambulance.”

“Whee woo,” Tony said obligingly.

At Tony’s approach, Steve scoffed, angry. He stood, almost immediately listing to the side. Sam caught him under the arm before he could stumble, and Tony found himself wincing in sympathy when Steve’s face went very white. Captain America could take a lot of punishment, but vibranium to the head was a bit much, even for him.

Now that Steve had almost eaten concrete, he did them the courtesy of looking sheepish instead of stubborn. “Look, I’m fine. I almost-“

“-had him? Please,” Sam countered. “You were off your game.”

“…yeah,” Steve admitted hoarsely. He bowed his head. “You’re right.” Then, almost to himself, he muttered, “It was like fighting Bucky.”

Tony flinched slightly, glad his suit hid most of it. “How so?” he asked, voice even.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Too afraid to hit too hard, and too slow to make anything matter.” Steve leaned forward, and suddenly Tony had an armful of super soldier. Sam looked relieved. Steve mumbled an apology.

Tony shook his head. “Sam, pair up with Ben. Murdock says he’s getting antsy.”

“Right. Will do.” Sam took to the sky.

Tony hauled Steve’s arm over one shoulder. “Nothing to see here, folks. Go home,” he called out. Quieter, he said, “Steve, come on, work with me here.”

Steve finally assumed the proper position, standing on Tony’s boots, and they took off into the sky.

They hadn’t gotten very far before the plates over Tony’s shoulder started creaking dangerously. “Tony,” Steve said warningly.

Tony immediately dropped them down on the closest roof. Steve immediately shoved away from him, gagging and dropping to a knee. Tony winced sympathetically. Flying via Iron Man Airlines wasn’t fun for most people, let alone concussed folks. But Steve was used to it most days, and Tony knew that if the choice was to get him back to the Tower in ten minutes or forty-five, Steve would pick ten minutes every time.

Tony let Steve take a couple of ragged, horrible breaths. “Ready to go again?”

Steve didn’t answer. He pushed himself to his feet, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “He was… so afraid of me,” Steve muttered. “He always has been, hasn’t he?”

Tony didn’t want to talk about this. He never wanted to talk about this. He hated that Steve was even bringing it up. “Come on, Dad,” he said, trying to distract Steve. “Let’s get you back to the Tower. Your other children can clean up the mess.”

Steve nodded. Then, just as quickly, he shook his head. “I’m going to be sick.”

Tony stood by as their fearless leader emptied his stomach off the side of the roof, pretending like he didn’t almost do the same thing the last time he’d tangled with his favorite spider-themed superhero. Like he wasn’t constantly replaying Spider-Man’s wet noise of shock as Tony knocked him out of the sky with a repulsor blast. Like Tony hadn’t bolted from the confrontation immediately, throwing himself 100% into a support role instead of calling it quits entirely—or, better yet, actually putting some brain power into figuring out why things weren’t lining up.

What a fucking mess.

 

-

 

It was too convenient.

For the fifth time in two hours, Jessica flipped a green chest piece over, frowning over it. She’d dug through most of Harry’s apartment, but it was this piece of armor she kept going back to, kept focusing on. The chest piece had shallow, faint marks over the front with just about the right spacing for someone’s fingers. A smoking gun that matched what little evidence there was to be had on the bodies of the Oscorp victims.

Too convenient. It almost felt like a display. 

Luke dropped a box near Jessica. He’d found a haul of knives and weapons. “He’s been busy,” he said, voice disapproving.

Jessica moved away from the armor, mind racing. “This is…”

“What?”

Harry Osborn was Spidey—and the Green Goblin? No. No, it didn’t make any sense.

“Keep looking for stuff,” she said finally.

There was a lot to look at. Beyond the basic surface level “rich boy” apartment was evidence of something fishy. There was damaged flooring in the center of his living room. There was a broken window in the guy’s bedroom, covered by trash bags. And yet there was also the smell of cleaning fluid. Everything was dusted, electronics were cool to the touch, and the fridge was empty.

Harry Osborn hadn’t been in his apartment for a long time.

“Hey,” Luke called out from another room. Jessica went to him, entering a sparsely decorated office. Luke was on the other side of the desk. “Guy doesn’t lock his laptop.”

“No fucking way,” Jessica breathed, shocked. She hadn’t even bothered to check. Luke flipped the laptop around to her, and she dove into it immediately. There wasn’t much on it. Pausing, she briefly considered that this too was part of the display.

Or just maybe this was part of a different one.

“He has security cameras,” Luke said, pointing out an app over her shoulder. She clicked on it immediately. A series of windows popped up. Harry had the usual places covered—his balcony, the outside hallway leading to his front door, the inside foyer on the other side, and much of his expansive den.

“What’s happened the last few days?” Jessica asked. They looked at the controls, figuring out how to play the video.

Days zipped by through a sped-up rewind. A maid came in, moving all throughout the house before leaving—she was never there more than an hour each day. Four days later, another woman let herself in with a key.

“Who is she?” Luke asked.

“The girlfriend.”

Gwen Stacy didn’t stay long, nor did she go through the apartment like the maid did. She looked around, clearly calling out to someone, but when no one answered, she left.

Five days ago finally placed Harry in his own apartment. He wandered around it casually, like a young heir to an estate, silk pajamas and an alcoholic beverage at the ready. But what was worse was when he didn’t move. He had periods of time where he would freeze in place, standing still for anywhere from twenty minutes to a full hour. He always eventually shook himself out of it, sweating, pale, and visibly bothered.

“Sleepwalker, maybe?” Jessica guessed. “Or maybe a dissociative state?” The further they went back, the less Harry seemed to have them.

Impatient, Jessica fiddled with the controls. They jumped months back, and it was like night and day. The damaged flooring was still there but covered up with a rug. Gwen was around more. So were others. Harry entertained with small gatherings and parties, always laughing and in the center of attention. He played occasional host to another male roughly his size. Their body language was friendly, although the stranger always seemed armed with a portfolio. It was weird. Jessica didn’t know Harry had any friends.

They jumped back a couple more weeks, then Luke’s hand shot out. “Hah,” he said, pausing it. “That was sloppy, Spidey.”

Luke was right. Spider-Man was standing in the middle of the living room, right in view of the camera. The damaged flooring was gone, and Jessica knew this because Harry was standing right where the damage would take hold. He was stretching idly, seemingly content in his own safety and secrecy in the middle of his own home.

Except Spidey wasn’t alone. Two yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness behind him. Jessica could tell when Luke noticed it, because he stiffened too.

Then, slowly, he reached out and pressed play.

There was no audio. Spider-Man jerked around suddenly, facing the intruder. He didn’t stand a chance. Jessica and Luke watched in silence as Spider-Man was knocked flat on his back and brutalized by flying fists. Spider-Man was slammed into the ground below him one, twice, three times. Then two hands clamped over Spider-Man’s throat, tightening, squeezing-

Luke closed the laptop. Jessica sagged against the desk, relieved. He rubbed her shoulders comfortingly. 

“So,” he said slowly. “That’s not his suit back there. Not unless he could be in two places at once.”

“Yeah. That’s not his suit,” Jessica said thickly, straightening. “But neither is the one he’s wearing.”

“What?”

Jessica scoffed. “Since when does Spidey let people wail on him like that?” She shook her head, pulling away from Luke. “No. Harry Osborn isn’t the Green Goblin. He isn’t the one killing people. But he’s also not Spider-Man.”

Luke was confused. “But you said-”

“I know what I said,” Jessica snapped. “Harry’s the one who attacked me. I stand by that.” Quieter, she whispered, “Spider-Man is just a distraction.” And she had a bad feeling that she knew who was controlling their strings.

She had a thought. “How publicized is this?”

“Turn on the TV,” Luke said. “Local news.”

He followed her into the living room as she did just that, turning on a news station just in time to see Spider-Man violently crash into the hood of a car. They finally grounded him.

Across the bottom of the screen flashed the words CIVIL WAR II?

“Oof.” Luke winced away from the television. “How fast do you think his healing factor is?”

Not fast enough. Spider-Man pulled himself out of the wreckage, lurching away from it unsteadily with an arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. Abruptly, he leapt to the side, barely avoiding a blast from the Human Torch, which charred the car. A massive Ant-Man leaned in, too slow to grab the spider-themed hero as he took off running on foot.

The coverage cut to reports aglow with the light of speculation. A hero turned super villain made for an excellent news day. She bitterly thought about all the important news getting dumped over this, the real problems they had with this city. All of this was a pretty distraction.

And now it was clear to her. Everything she hadn’t understood before—the visible struggle on Harry’s face after he attacked Gwen. Spider-Man’s constant attempts to contact her, and Harry’s consistent lack of recognition. The way Spider-Man barely touched people in a fight, leaping and twisting and redirecting, striking only when necessary. How that all conflicted wildly with the brutal attack she’d weathered where she’d been pummeled by windmilling fists, like a kid who’d never been in a fight.

Turning to Luke, Jessica pointed at the screen. “That’s not Harry Osborn.” She was even surer of it now.

Luke tried to backtrack. “Jess. Jess, it’s been a long night. Maybe-“

“Do you trust Iron Man’s ego more than my gut?” she asked. She stopped. That wasn’t fair. She wasn’t explaining herself well. She tried again. “Look, the suit was a distraction—both of them were. Harry is the one who attacked me. Harry is the one who knows more about the Oscorp killings. He has to! Because this?” She stabbed a hand at the armor on the ground, the weapons around it. “This is someone framing him!” She pointed at the television then. “And that person is not that man I fought last night. I’d stake my life on it.”

Staring at her for a long moment, Luke eventually nodded. “Okay. Okay, so Harry Osborn, and _not_ Spidey, attacked you. Harry Osborn, and _not_ Spidey, knows something about the Oscorp murders. Am I getting that correct?” When Jessica nodded, he continued, pointing at the television. “So why would Spider-Man, the _real_ Spidey, let everyone think otherwise and pummel him half to death?”

“I don’t know.” It was the only part that didn’t make sense. “But while we’re focused on the wrong man, something else is going on that we don’t know about.” And the one thing they did know now that they didn’t before was that the Green Goblin was most likely the Oscorp murderer. The discarded armor and that video clip was proof enough.

They needed Harry Osborn now more than ever—and Iron Man was tracking his phone in a merry chase across Manhattan.

“I have an idea.” Jessica tapped the comm in her ear, ignoring the other chatter. “FRIDAY, do I need permission from your douchecanoe owner to ask you for a favor? Because I need one. Badly.”

“Let’s hear it,” said the AI. Creepy.

Jessica pushed her reservations down deep. “I need to track down the whereabouts of an Oscorp researcher named Gwen Stacy.”

 

-

 

Peter skidded across a rooftop near Greenwich and Warren. Panting, he turned, squaring off with Daredevil, Mr. Fantastic, and Black Widow.

Daredevil reached his roof first, mouth set in a grim line and body set to collide with Peter’s like a linebacker. But he didn’t wait for the other two, who were still three roofs away, and his attack suffered for it. Peter flipped over him with ease, shooting a web at Daredevil’s heel and yanking it, forcing his friend to his hands and knees. 

Daredevil snarled at this. Then he froze. “Wait. You don’t smell like-” Peter immediately webbed his mouth shut. Damnit, _Matt._

Needing to act quickly, Peter hauled Daredevil up to his toes and dropped him off the side of a building, webbing him between two fire escapes. That was close. He usually had scent dampeners built into his suit, but his suit was shredded and gaping open. Peter didn’t need Matt announcing to the world that he didn’t smell like the man Jessica Jones got in a fist fight with.

He was buying himself only a sliver of time—but the distraction worked. Reed stretched across the buildings away from Peter, focusing on Daredevil, concerned about his welfare. For his part, Daredevil looked resigned, swinging lightly in the breeze like a baby in a baby bouncer.

Black Widow labored under no such sentiments. She crossed the roofs separating them alarmingly quick. Yelping, Peter ducked before she kicked him in the face.

They parried a few blows, dropping down into a rooftop garden one floor below. Natasha smashed a rose bush on her way down. Peter broke a small gnome when he used it as a shield. They fought on.

Natasha wasn’t touching her Glocks, but she wasn’t as restrained with her Widow Bites. Peter found himself rushing from side to side just to avoid the surge of energy, and she always seemed to be where he just was. He was about to leap off the roof entirely—to hell with this, he thought—when several shots rang out, exploding garden beds around them. 

They both scattered, leaping for cover. Natasha ducked behind a thick iron trash can while Peter crouched behind the poorer cover of a bench. Peter flattened out lower when a piece of the bench was shot off. Too close.

Natasha had one hand on her gun. Peter’s Spidey sense, which hadn’t stopped screaming all night, buzzed a little louder at that. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking across the street at their sniper.

“Haven’t been shot at tonight, eh?” Peter quipped. “Ah. I remember my first.” 

The look Natasha shot him would have killed a lesser man, Peter thought. “I hope this was worth it,” she called out. “You know, no one would look down on you if you gave up and turned yourself in now.”

“Colonel Rhodes already tried that—and with a lot more charisma.”

Natasha’s mouth ticked up in a smirk. “James is very charismatic.” But her amusement was fleeting. Her gaze swung back to the source of the gunfire. A moment later, she was looking back at Peter. She seemed worried. “You let me bring you in, this ends. You keep doing this, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“I’m already hurt,” Peter snapped, his voice raw and jagged.

She eyed him knowingly. “You can heal from a lot of things, but you’re not going to heal from your head getting blown off.”

“So call off your attack dog,” Peter demanded.

“Bold of you to assume we’re holding the leash,” she countered, frowning again. “I don’t trust him to hold back, kiddo, and neither should you.”

Peter didn’t ask her to clarify who the shooter was. He already knew.

So Peter didn’t take any chances. He pushed off the bench and rolled off the side of the building, free falling for five stories before shooting out a web.

It was a risky play. Deadpool didn’t own rubber bullets.

But Peter had been outrunning Wade for hours. He’d keep doing it all night if he had to.

 

-

 

The target was moving. It was time to bug out. Wade picked up his sniper rifle. He mechanically took it apart, putting it back in the non-regulation duffle bag he’d carried it in. No traces. He picked up his bullet casings and hopped down from his vantage point. He had a map of ideal locations in the expected trajectory of the target, and he’d been moving between them all night.

No point in chasing a target that could practically fly.

Wade settled into his new perch, suddenly aware that he didn’t feel quite right. His skin itched and his mouth buzzed. He felt cold, but he was drenched in sweat. On top of that, through his ear, white noise glazed across Wade’s mind, numbing it.

Something was… wrong? Was he drunk? Sick? Drugged? When was the last time he ate or drank water? Wade dutifully patted himself for an MRE or a canteen but found nothing.

The noises in his head were changing, becoming louder and more pointed. Then the white noise became words and people—multiple people, all of them yelling at Wade to change his comm to the private channel. 

Wade obeyed, switching over. Someone was already on the other end.

“ _Wade_ ,” a man said, sounding relieved. Like he’d been trying to get ahold of Wade for a while.

A hazy designation floated to the front of Wade’s mind. Yes. “Just lost eyes on the target, Captain. Target is heading south east.”

His commanding officer’s tone changed. “Black Widow said you’re firing live ammo. What is your intention, soldier?”

Wade made a face. Who in their group was named _Black Widow_? Was this some shitty, dick measuring game where they made up names to puff up their own egos? This stank of Smitty. Wait, no, Smitty stepped on an IED one tour ago. No one else was that dumb. Code names, _pfft_. What was this, a video game?

Whatever. “Capture and incapacitate, Captain.”

“Can you do that non-lethally, Wade?” Frowning, Wade looked at his gear. Why was he wearing so much red? Was he injured? He palmed his chest distractedly, then his face when he realized he was wearing a mask. “You know he’s sick. He needs help.”

Wade made a face. He had no idea what the captain was talking about. He was Special Forces, not a nurse in sheer tights and a fuck-me skirt and-

Oh. _Oh._ Wade’s ears popped. The sound of city nightlife roared back into him. Oh fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck fuckity fuck _fuck_. He hated it when this shit happened. Dissociating was a bitch.

He was in New York, not Kuwait. He wasn’t half hidden in sand, he was half frozen against cold concrete, and heartsick and lonely. And he wasn’t Special Forces anymore, goddamnit. What a bad time for his awareness to dick off to fuck knows where.

Wade slapped himself. “…Sorry, oh captain, my captain. My mind was… somewhere else.” Wade tucked himself back into his rifle, looking through his scope.

Wade hadn’t fooled Steve one bit. “I’m trusting you to bring him back alive. Whatever it is you’re going through right now, remember what you told me. Spidey’s not just a superhero to you.”

Right. Spidey was everything he wanted to be—and everything he could not have.

There! Webs was swinging back his way, as expected. Through the scope, Wade watched as Spider-Man almost missed catching the edge of the roof. He corrected, crawling up and disappearing almost immediately.

Spider-Man was tired and messing up. At the start of all this, his favorite superhero had been dodging Wade’s bullets before he’d finished squeezing the trigger. Now, Spidey was tripping over his own feet. He was slow. Stumbling. Easy to catch. But maybe not with a bullet? God. He hoped not with a bullet.

Wade pressed his head against his rifle, trying to breathe.

Underneath him, his phone chirped. Wiggling, Wade pulled it out. There was a 50% off sale on his favorite taco place not too far from here. Hm. Regretfully, Wade swiped away the message. Not today, delicious tacos. Not today.

Wade paused. Dismissing the message revealed his phone background. At the sight of it, he hesitated, cradling it closer. Two men stared up at him. One was scarred and hideous, the other scrunched up and grumpy as the first man shoved both of their faces together in an impromptu selfie.

Wade touched the tip of his finger to Peter’s nose. Peter was frowning unhappily, but in that exaggerated sort of way that Wade knew was just play. They’d taken a couple of other selfies too, including one where Peter was blowing his cheeks out like a chipmunk. Wade, laughing, had fallen out of view of the camera.

But it was this one that Wade made his background. Dumb fuck luck Wade and his grumpy boy.

God, he hoped this was worth it. The way this night was going, he would have to cripple Harry Osborn sooner or later to make him stop. Peter would never forgive him.

Peter would never understand.


	11. Chapter 11

“Sitrep, Ant Man,” Tony ordered as he walked into his old penthouse.

“It sucks,” Scott said dully. He was typing away on his phone, half-turned away from Tony.

Tony could hardly believe it. He swung back to Scott, saying, “What, are you tweeting this? Come on, head in the game.”

Scott’s mouth twisted. “Do you know how many of my friends and family are calling me right now, asking why I’m _bullying Spider-Man_? Even FBI Agent Wu!” Tony shrugged. “Okay, so maybe that doesn’t hit home for you, so how about this: how the hell do I explain to my daughter that her daddy has to beat up one of the most kid-friendly superheroes we have?”

Tony found himself on the defensive. “Look, I’m not unsympathetic to Spider-Man.” Far from it. “Why do you think I had FRIDAY suppress that video? I’m trying to save his ass and his reputation at the same time. Suck it up until we finish the job. Then you can explain to your daughter why Daddy had to beat up Spidey just a little.”

They would have to do a lot of explaining to a lot of people. Tony had a rough plan for it already—first step, the media. Next, government and the cops. Tony couldn’t have that conversation now without destroying the détente they had with all authorities. Pepper and Danny Rand were struggling enough as it was to keep the NYPD from being deployed in the direct chase.

And on their end, the NYPD were starting to vocally question who the real villain was here—Spidey or the people chasing him.

“That’s not the point. I can deal with people yelling at me,” Scott said. “It’s just- This feels _bad_ , Tony.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Scott said, blinking. “Wasp’s suit is broken.”

Tony could just kill Scott sometimes. “You couldn’t have led with that?” he barked. Scott looked unapologetic, even when Tony pushed past him.

“She’s in the medical wing,” Scott called out behind him.

Tony hurried to the elevator. As one of their most mobile Avengers, Hope hadn’t been lower than the 20th floor for most of the night. And like Falcon, all she had was one pair of wings keeping her aloft. Tony fell, he had back up repulsors to control his descent or, in a worst case scenario, a metal suit and shock absorbers to soften the fall.

Tony was plagued with a visual of Jessica’s head knocking back when Spider-Man hit her. His heart pounded. If Spider-Man seriously hurt or maimed an Avenger in this stupid fight, then…

Then this really might be the point of no return for him.

Scott was following, unfortunately, a step or two behind him. Tony’s resolve to ignore the man broke when he entered the elevator with him. “Did he wreck her suit?” he demanded.

“What?” Scott seemed surprised. “No, it just- It just glitched in the middle of the fight. It happens sometimes. Her wings stopped working and the suit forced her to her full size. No, point is, she fell, Tony. She fell and-”

“Breathe.” Scott was starting to wind himself up in a thick panic. Tony could barely deal with his own anxiety, let alone other people’s.

Scott sucked in the briefest of breaths before continuing. “-and Spidey stopped fighting me to help her, right? And I didn’t even see it. I didn’t see it, and I backhanded him into a building.” He swung an arm out. “And Hope, she landed on a fire escape, almost kept falling, and I- I almost- I didn’t. _I didn’t catch her_. The first time or the second time.” Scott stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall, just outside the medical wing. Tony stopped too. Scott’s eyes were wide and shocked. “But Spidey caught her the second time. Because he was paying attention, and I wasn’t.”

Scott deflated, arms hanging low. “So I reiterate,” he said quietly, “sitrep freaking sucks.” He looked so defeated.

Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be alright,” he promised. Scott looked unconvinced.

_Yeah. Me too, buddy._

Tony released Scott and walked into the medical wing.

Sue Storm, like Danny Rand, refused to directly engage Spider-Man. Steve had asked her to set up a medical space instead, loading it with all the supplies they might need. Now that they actually had injuries, she led the first aid efforts. They’d had only minor wounds so far, minus a weird situation where Sue had to dunk Wanda in dissolvent to remove from her half a year’s worth of web fluid. Steve’s concussion had healed within an hour, Matt Murdock had accepted only the most cursory of bandages after his first rumble with Spider-Man, and Clint had swung by with minor burns, complaining loudly about jumpy hot heads. That, Tony suspected, had less to do with receiving first aid and more to do with “telling on” his partner to his partner’s sister.

And now, there was Hope.

Tony didn’t usually see her wings when she was at full size. It was stunning, gossamer material gleaming with an internal core of glowing circuitry. It made his hands itch. Hank Pym was an asshole, but he was a talented genius too.

But today, those gorgeous wings drooped. Tangled around them was the distinct pattern of webbing, shot out to catch a falling hero before she met her end.

Hope turned at the sound of his entrance, expression neutral. She had a broken arm and a split chin. She was holding her body stiffly, like she constantly felt every rail she’d hit on the way down.

“Miss Van Dyne,” Tony greeted formally.

“Mr. Stark,” Hope greeted back in the same tone. “I’d hoped for someone with a better bedside manner.”

Tony pointed to the door. “I can come back with the nurse’s outfit.”

Hope’s eyebrow arched. “Can you really pull that off at your age?”

Tony chuckled. “Ouch,” he said, looking at her chart. “So, you’re grounded.”

Hope stiffened even more at that. She had her father’s stubbornness. “I’m not grounded, I’m…” From across the room, Sue side-eyed her. Hope frowned back at her before sitting back on the gurney. “I’m pulling a page out of Sue’s book and choosing to sit this one out.”

“Hm.” Tony looked at Sue, who busied herself, ignoring him. Hope was like a bloodhound with things like this. Tony wondered what Sue had said to her to convince Hope not to finish the job, broken arm or not.

“Can I sit out with you?” Scott asked suddenly, hopeful. He’d snuck in sometime in the last minute.

Hope’s laser-eyed glare moved from Tony to Scott. “I don’t know,” she said in a cool tone Tony found all too familiar. “Do you have another suit you haven’t told me about?”

She was frosty. In Scott’s shoes, Tony would have backed off for an entire day before trying again. But Scott just kneeled down in front of her, clasping her good hand between his own. Something passed between them, and Tony could tell the exact moment Hope decided to have mercy on her long-time fiancé. She lifted his hand, pressing her cheek against the back of it. Then she turned heavy, tired eyes on Tony.

Tony realized too late that they were asking for permission. “Fine. Hide in the tower. I won’t say anything.” He pointed at them forebodingly. “But you’ll have to answer to Cap.”

Scott stood. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, wrapping his arms loosely around Hope. Past the couple, Sue lifted her tablet, hiding a smile.

It felt like the first good thing Tony had done all night. Tony decided to leave before he ruined anything.

Naturally, Steve was standing outside of the room, leaning against the entry wall. He looked up at Tony’s exit, expression neutral. Feeling guilty, like a school boy caught out by a favored but stern teacher, Tony nevertheless waved a hand over the door until it closed behind them.

Contrary to what he’d threatened, it seemed like the blame would be best on Tony’s shoulders alone.

They faced off with each other, each unwilling to start something. Tony despaired at it, remembering a time where they could argue heartily for hours without a worry or concern. Now, it was like every disagreement was the prelude to another schism in the team. They worked best when they had some awful evil to unite against, like invading aliens or sentient machines. Staying true to each other was harder when their target was a friend. That was always going to be their weakness, it seemed.

Years later, Tony still could barely stand to be in the same room as Barnes, and he knew down to his bones that Barnes was a victim as much as his parents were. And now Spider-Man threatened to add to the wedge that the Winter Soldier had planted in the middle of their team—and there were a lot more players involved this time around. The Avengers might not survive another round of this.

So Tony hesitated, and so did Steve.

“We need a different strategy,” Tony said finally.

Steve looked faintly relieved. “Okay,” he said, not arguing. Tony rocked back on his heels, stunned. Flushing faintly, Steve turned away from him, tapping on the public comms. “Fall back to the Tower, everyone. We need to regroup. Rethink some things. It’s been a long night.”

Thank god.

Steve looked up at him then. “At some point, we need to stop tiptoeing around each other. Think we’ll ever get there?”

He wanted to get there so bad. He practically had a road map sketched out already. “Raincheck on this conversation until Spidey’s taken care of?”

“Agreed,” Steve said. Then, kindly, he said, “He’ll be okay, Tony.”

“God, I hope so.”

 

-

 

Sunrise broke over the skyline of New York City, shading everything in tones of orange, blue, and gray.

Peter was perched on top of a cluster of residential apartment buildings. He shivered in the cool air, drooping helplessly. He was exhausted. People had stopped engaging him two hours ago, but Peter didn’t dare nap. He kept moving, kept making himself a visible (but hard to catch) target. He wasn’t surprised the others had fallen back. They were probably waiting for him to fall flat on his face and pass out which was looking more and more like a possibility as the night lifted and the sky brightened.

Yawning, Peter pulled his phone out and called Gwen. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hey,” he breathed.

“Hey,” Gwen whispered back.

“How’s it?”

“He needs an hour more treatment. That’s it.”

“Good.”

Gwen was crying the last few times they spoke. He’d had to gently convince her to stop watching the news. Now they were both plagued with the calm that came with having no energy to feel.

Peter muffled a yawn against his hand. “How’s the results so far?”

“Promising,” she said. “Building is still under lockdown. Norman isn’t lifting it, which works for me. God, can you imagine what would have happened if he came up here and saw this?”

Peter chuckled. Bad didn’t begin to cover it. There were a couple of crimes worse than murder to Norman Osborn, and Peter was sure they were all related to people touching his stuff. Restless at the thought, he stood, walking down the length of the roof.

“Do you know if he’ll recover?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Peter frowned at that. All night, Gwen had had an answer for everything.

Peter needed more. In between running and getting his ass kicked, Peter had been thinking about little else. “Small doses, fewer symptoms—right? So maybe the brain damage-”

“Maybe,” she said, cutting him off. But not rudely. Tiredly. Like she’d already walked down this path before.

Peter’s mouth pressed flat. He did a vertical jump—three stories, nothing crazy. For Peter, anyway. The last foot of the jump was when his Spidey sense went off again—threat, threat, _threat_.

“Peter?” Gwen asked, hearing the hitch in his breath. Peter landed on the next roof in a crouch, phone still pressed to his ear.

It would be almost comical if it wasn’t so unfortunately timed. The five robbers trying to break into the penthouse below him were just as startled as Peter to see Spider-Man on the same roof.

“Hang on a sec. Some folks are under the impression that a little B&E is the key to a balanced breakfast.”

Peter almost got a crowbar to the head for that. Then it was on. He was ducking, pivoting, and twisting, rerouting the fight quickly one-handed.

It wasn’t until all five men were on the ground that Peter registered that he was almost out of webfluid. Peter tested his webshooters again. A puff of air came out of the left one, but the right one gave him a hopeful spurt of fluid. Pulling a tiny tool kit out of his belt, he quickly recalibrated it to compensate for lower webfluid volume before finally securing the would-be criminals with his usual webs. It was stickier than usual, but, eh, they could deal.

Then all he had to do was pull out his burner phone, call in a quick tip to the cops, and-

“Wowie. Dinner _and_ a movie.”

The danger feeling had never left.

Peter spun around, eyes flying to the rooftop of the next building. It stood one story taller, and Deadpool himself was peering over the edge, hands propping up his chin. There was a half grin under his mask, a grin that only grew bigger when Deadpool lumbered to his feet, jumping down to Peter’s roof with the casual confidence of someone who never worried about things like broken bones.

_Oh my god_ , Peter thought. He was going to throw up in his mask.

“You’re impressive,” Deadpool commented cheerfully, half-admiring. “No surprises there. But ten hours of being chased around and hunted by super heroes, and you _still_ can take out five armed robbers in under thirty seconds? My man!” He lifted a hand in the air jubilantly. “Up top!”

Despite the friendliness of this gesture, there was something distinctly dangerous crawling beneath it. Peter needed to leave. He turned automatically only to skitter backwards when Wade fired three shots at the edge of the roof he’d been approaching. Peter froze in place, tensing up even further when that smoking barrel skittered away from its old target, and onto a new one—Peter’s chest.

Then it swung away. Deadpool chuckled darkly, itching his head with the tip of his handgun. “Yeah. So. Here’s the thing. It’s been a really, really long night, Webs, and I would super appreciate it if you turned yourself in.” His eyes widened hopefully in his mask. “Any chances you’d come quietly? I’d feed ya. 50% off tacos at my favorite Mexican restaurant! What do you say?”

Peter’s stomach grumbled at the tempting offer. At the sound, something about Deadpool’s expression changed somehow, becoming more and more like Wade than Peter was comfortable with. He held up a hand between them, cutting it off.

“Sorry. I can’t.” He didn’t have to force a deep voice. Normally, his voice inducer did the trick, but it had been disabled the last time Peter got shocked.

But it hardly mattered. Peter’s throat was raw from yelling, dry from dehydration. He didn’t sound like himself at all.

Deadpool drooped, disappointed. He sighed. “Then I’m sorry too,” he whispered. Peter almost believed him—would have, if Deadpool’s body didn’t suddenly tighten, if his own anxious brain didn’t start screaming.

If Wade’s voice didn’t become so very cold. “You don’t get a choice anymore, Harry Osborn.”

Peter flinched back. Fuck.

A second later, Deadpool was firing his gun and Peter was leaping out of the way, diving to the next roof. He ran, tripping over himself. 

Deadpool’s voice floated behind him, following him. “I was waiting for you, Spidey! For months! All you had to do was come and talk to me.” Panicking, Peter jumped out of the way of two thrown knives, barely dodging the second one. “We could have avoided this all if you hadn’t spent the entire time ignoring me like a goddamn entitled brat.” His voice was pure venom. “You had all the time in the world! _Now you’re out of it_.”

The roofs in the area were roughly the same height, plus or minus a few stories. It was the worst place to have been caught by Deadpool. Wade was keeping up with him, dodging out of sight with an ease that said this was not the first time Deadpool had committed to a fight across rooftops.

A pot exploded right in front of Peter’s face. He backpedaled quickly, falling to his ass and scrambling to his hands and feet.

Deadpool chuckled flatly. “Don’t front with me, Spidey. You’re tired, you know it.” Above him, Wade emerged, wandering across the rooftop of a taller building. He didn’t hide this time. He had a switch in his hand. “So let Daddy Deadpool sing you a lullaby. _Rock a bye Spidey on the rooftop, when the bomb blows, that sick beat will drop.”_

Deadpool clapped the big red button. Across the way, something started beeping. He hyper-focused on the sound, tracking it and catching sight of a bulky box and a stack of dynamite. The beeping came from a clock ticking downward.

The bomb wasn’t a business highrise that could possibly be empty at this time of the morning. It was a residential building, and hundreds of people could die.

Swearing, Peter hurled himself to his feet, crossing the rooftops at breakneck speed, trying to get to the bomb before it would go off.

He was going so fast, he had to use the wall over the bomb to stop himself. He corrected himself, looking down at the weapon and desperately trying to figure out how to disable it before Deadpool did something he could never come back from.

But Peter was tired. That was why it took him so long to realize that the bomb was nothing more than a boombox and a pile of used paper towel rolls sloppily painted red.

“Just kidding,” a voice whispered in Peter’s ear.

Peter automatically spun around, but he didn’t have enough room to do anything else. A second later, Peter screamed as white hot pain ripped through his bicep. His phone clattered to the floor. It took him too long to register the katana pinning him to the wall.

Deadpool kicked the boombox aside. “Sorry. Believe me, when I said I wanted to penetrate the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, I didn’t mean with my sword.” He rifled through his pouches, seemingly unconcerned.

Peter was afraid to move—it hurt too badly. “Wade, you fucking asshole,” he hissed, stunned.

Wade pulled out a pair of thick silver handcuffs and was able to get a cuff around Peter’s left wrist. “What was that? You know my name? Have you read my dossier too? It’s a page turner.” He moved away from Peter, finally giving him the space to curl up on himself like a man in pain. Or a dying spider.

“I know lots of things about you too, Spidey. One, you have an ass that don’t quit. Not gonna lie. It’s canon. Two, you are a networking genius, getting all those chumps to sub in for you—what? Such a good idea. Too bad it was a red flag for Captain Tight Pants.” He grabbed Peter’s mask, gathering up the fabric in his fist. “Three, You’re _Harry Osborn_.” Wade yanked off Peter’s mask theatrically, as if offering the revelation to the sky.

After a moment, he paused, looking down. “Oh.” Then quieter, he said, “You have a lot nicer hair than Harry Osborn.”

Peter kept his face level to the ground, scared to look up. His heart was rabbiting away in his chest. He could pass out like this. Did Wade see who he was doing this to? Did he know? The time of the morning meant Peter was still mostly in shadow. Further, Wade just didn’t seem to recognize Peter from this angle. But all he had to do to ruin that was lift his head.

But that didn’t happen, because at that moment, Gwen let out a scream so loud, even Deadpool heard it.

“What the shit was that?” Deadpool demanded, looking around for the source of the noise.

Peter took advantage of the distraction. He wrenched the katana out of his arm with his cuffed hand. Then he used his freed arm and punched Wade in the face. Wade flew back, ass over tea kettle.

But Peter couldn’t even be satisfied over it. He regretted it almost immediately, the pain radiating up and down his arm in a new sort of hell. He picked his mask off the ground, forcing it back over his face, and then leaned over to pick his phone back up.

“Gwen? Gwen!” The line was dead.  

“Come on now,” Wade said woozily, pulling himself back up to a seated position. “Let’s rewind a bit where I was supposed to look at your face. I feel like I missed an important identity reveal. Don’t do me like that, Spidey.”

Peter fell to a knee—and not because of the bleeding injury he now needed to deal with. He stared at his cuffed wrist, bewildered by it. “What the hell is this?” It was heavy, and only getting heavier.

“Anti-mutant, anti-superhero. It gets heavier and heavier until you’re subdued.” Wade shot him a peace sign, winking at him. “Only the best for the best.”

It was the worst. Peter needed both hands to lift it now, and it kept getting heavier. He tried to pry it apart, but this set of handcuffs was made of sterner stuff than Wade’s fluffy pink ones.

Yelling in frustration, Peter slammed his cuffed hand into the wall. Then he did it again. And again. Bits of wall came off with the effort.

Behind him, Wade finally got to his feet. “While I appreciate the determination, there’s no version of this scenario where brick breaks vibranium.”

“Wasn’t aiming for the metal,” Peter whispered, then he finally broke his hand with an agonized yell. He quickly slipped his hand free from the cuff just as Wade caught on to what he was doing. Pivoting, Peter threw the cuff at Deadpool, who tried to catch it.

Big mistake—he faceplanted under the weight, dropping like a ton of bricks. Deadpool was skilled, deadly, and strong—but Peter could bench 10x what Wade could, and he knew it.

He left Wade to swear at the device, thoroughly distracted. Angry, Peter couldn’t help a final remark, and threw it over his shoulder just as he threw a line out to the next building.

“All you had to do was stay home, Wade! If she’s dead, it’s all your fault!”

Peter got away. But the webs weren’t solidifying right. They stretched, swinging him too low. He caught on to the edge of the roof, and pushed onward, dropping into a dead run towards Oscorp.

Gwen wasn’t picking up his calls. Something had changed.

No matter how hard he ran, he was going to be too late. He ran anyway, feeling a little as if he’d left something dead behind on that last rooftop.

 

-

 

Jessica had her hunches. Reed had his theories. Clint had his sarcasm. But at the end of the day? Tony had Harry Osborn.

It was Jessica who tipped them off that they needed to track down Gwen Stacy. It hadn’t taken more than a few seconds for FRIDAY to locate her phone, still in the Oscorp Tower.

Now Norman Osborn’s office, once a site of much posturing and chest thumping, was a sea of broken glass. Sirens and red flashing lights screamed at them over and over. Tony tapped a couple times on a holographic interface and, boom, done. Just glass, no alarms.

Hm. It could use more glass. Tony poked out another pane, letting it shatter at his feet just because he could.

“That just seems excessive, Tones,” Rhodey admonished.

“You have no idea how much of a pain in the ass Norman Osborn is,” Tony said in an undertone. “He’s the one who bought out all the producers of that material we needed for our prosthetics work. No good reason to do it either, other than he knew I wanted them. So he bought them, tore the companies apart, then sold off the pieces.” In the end, Tony had invented a new type of material anyway, but it had rankled.

Rhodey blinked rapidly. Then he nodded, turning away. “Okay. Break away.”

Tony knocked out another pane of glass.

Natasha walked down the stairs from the upper story lab. “The scientist tried to stab Clint with a pencil. I think he wants to adopt her.”

Tony snorted. “Of course he does.” He walked over to her, leaning over the rail of the stairs. He looked up at the lab, raising his voice. “Hey, can we wrap this up? I’m racking up lawsuits by the second just by standing here.”

“No one said you had to hack Oscorp’s security to turn off the alarm,” Natasha reminded him knowingly.

“No one asked. And yet, I gave.” He spread both arms out wide. “You’re welcome.”

Behind him, more glass shattered. Tony turned to see what was the matter. Rhodey twitched, caught red-handed. “What?” he said, defensive, gauntlet retracting. “It was already broken. It was a hazard. _You saw_.”

Tony was already grinning. “You are the wind beneath my wings.”

Rhodey pointed a finger at Tony. “Not another word.”

“Tony, we need you up here,” Steve called out.

“I have been summoned,” Tony announced to them before making his way up the stairs. They held up admirably under the weight of his suit, which was good. Tony wasn’t prepared to enter Norman Osborn’s stronghold without it.

It was an ostentatious lab, more dazzle than razzle. There was too much equipment up here to be comfortably sustained by the power grid. If he turned everything on at the same time, it would take out the power in the entire block. No, the only reason to have so much technology crammed into one room was to enjoy the statement it made, rather than the functionality.

Tony was a fan of flashy. He wasn’t a fan of useless.

In the middle of the lab, sat in a chair with her head bowed was the scientist Jessica had pointed them at. Clint was on a knee next to her, talking to her quietly. She said nothing, blond hair hanging loose over her face. But still, Clint talked. He was a champion of lost causes.

Tony met Steve’s eyes across the room, then moved past him, focus falling on the thing that had made Steve so nervous in the first place. Tony had Harry Osborn, alright, but he wasn’t expecting Spider-Man: Secret Underwater Adventures.

Hm. An Oscorp submersion tank. Once heralded as the height of medical technology, it was now somewhat dated, but in the same way Nokias were dated, and yet everyone wanted one. It was hardy and it worked. And look at this! He hadn’t seen one of these in years, but here it was, functional, powered, and holding a twenty-something superhero. Unable to resist, Tony reached out to touch one of its panels.

“Don’t.”

Tony turned away from the tank. That was the first thing he’d heard the scientist say all night. Looking briefly up at Spider-Man—Spidey looked like hell—Tony turned away from the equipment, walking up to the scientist. “So. Dr. Stacy, huh? Aiding and abetting an out-of-control vigilante. Kind of a weird thing to put on your resume.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, still talking to her shoes.

Tony jerked a thumb at Spidey. “He pulls a good front, but all our evidence says your boyfriend is our web slinging friend.” The fact that he was still wearing his suit was kind of damning, really.

“Then your evidence is crap.”

Clint was watching the tube uneasily. “If the Spidey Clone Army involves actual clones, I quit,” he muttered.

Steve took over the questioning. “Explain. How long has he been here?”

“All night,” she said softly.

“You’re really going to set yourself up as a false alibi?” Tony asked, frowning at her. “That’s not very smart.”

Dr. Stacy lifted her head. It was the first time she’d looked at him directly. She looked tired. Her hair was greasy, and there were faint streaks down her cheeks from makeup that had given up the fight. Worse yet, she was a _kid_. If she was more than thirty, he’d eat his own helmet.

“Don’t believe me? Check the computers. Check the equipment. Check the security footage.” Dr. Stacy’s voice was dull. “He’s been here, in this building ever since he attacked Jessica Jones.” 

Tony paused. Clint took the time to stand up, leaning towards him and Steve. “Jessica has a couple of hunches. They’re worth listening to.” The way he said that made Tony think that Clint was of the mindset that they were more than just ‘worth listening to’.

“Hell, look at his suit,” Dr. Stacy continued, ignoring their aside. “I don’t care why you’re here. Harry isn’t well. He needs help, and I’m the only one who can give it to him. So please, just… leave us alone.”

“You know we can’t do that, Dr. Stacy,” Clint said quietly.

Tony’s thoughts were racing. “If you knew Harry Osborn was out of control, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Dr. Stacy leveled a disgusted glare at him. “You think I kept this to myself? I _tried_ reaching out you people. I told Jessica Jones something was wrong with Harry before even I knew the specifics. I broke my NDA and tried to bring data to Reed Richards for a second opinion. Even- Even Harry’s assistant Peter, he’s been calling every superhero in town, trying to get somebody to listen.” A single tear ran down her cheek, even as her mouth twisted in a snarl. “Only Spider-Man would listen to me. And you guys punished him for that _thoroughly_.”

Warning sounds blared in Tony’s head.

“Jessica thinks someone’s behind this,” Clint reminded them. “All of this.”

Steve and Tony shared a look. “Back to the tower,” Steve decided. “Everyone. Call them all back, if they left.” He nodded towards Dr. Stacy. “And we need to take the scientist and Osborn as well.”

Tony automatically moved towards the tank again. That made her stand. “No, don’t,” she begged. “Please don’t touch him!”

“It’s meant to detach, Dr. Stacy,” Clint told her. “SHIELD has a couple of these. It houses its own battery. It will keep working.” As if to prove it, Clint leaned over and pulled out the plug. Dr. Stacy flinched like he’d slapped her, but when the lights inside of the tube stayed on, she relaxed, instantly looking ten years older.

“We’re not messing with your treatment plan, Doctor. I’m just moving your patient.” Tony caught her forearm, gently grasping it to bring her back to Earth. She looked so overwhelmed. “Bring all of your data with you. Every piece of evidence. Every note. We weren’t listening to you before, but we are now.”

Dr. Stacy started nodding rapidly. “Thank you.” She turned, gathering her notes and her bag.

Clint pointed out where he could detach the tank from its housing. Sizing up the task, Tony called out for Rhodey, finding two hand holds for the tank on either side. Working together, they carried it out of the lab and back into the office. Either one of them could have hefted it down the stairs alone, but the extra care seemed to help Dr. Stacy cope. The calmer they got her now, the easier it would be to convince her that they had to fly with it next. Tony was expecting that to be the next problem.

In the meantime, Tony’s thoughts raced after each other, an ouroboros of steadily creeping dread.

At the end of day, Tony had Harry Osborn. Tony also had a tired scientist who was ready and willing to shed a light on Harry Osborn’s sudden foray into assault. And, in the tank, Tony had an alleged murderer who had been contained for ten hours, the same murderer they were supposed to have been chasing around the city for just as long.

There was a roaring in Tony’s ears that had nothing to do with actual sound.


	12. Chapter 12

It took Peter a full hour to climb Oscorp Tower to the broken windows of the CEO’s floor. He was shaking the entire time. He knew, like he knew the taste of blood in his mouth, that Gwen was either dead or gone.

And he was right. Norman’s office was a mess of broken glass. Peter stepped carefully, creeping up the stairs to the lab just beyond it. It was empty too, silent and cold. Harry’s tank was gone, leaving nothing but a metal wire shell.

Peter slowly sank on the top step. He let himself wallow in the failure, letting it build up in his chest like a sob. Then, swaying, he got back up and made his way slowly down the stairs. There was no time to beat himself up now. He had to figure what happened, and where Gwen and Harry went.

So he called Seymour O’Reilly. “Hey. What the fuck,” the IT guy said. “It’s early.”

“Yeah. Got another challenge for you,” Peter rasped, sitting carefully on Norman’s chair.

“Wow, you sound like shit, dude.”

Peter ignored that, rewrapping his broken hand with a fabric he’d pulled out of someone’s window. “Password to Norman Osborn’s computer. I need it now. Can you get it?”

“I… really?” Seymour was surprised.

“Yeah, really.” He flexed his hand minutely, feeling only the slightest twinge. He was so cold. It was probably a blessing, considering everything. He wasn’t even bleeding that much anymore.

Seymour hesitated. “You know… passwords aren’t challenging, dude. But Norman Osborn’s a different beast. Why are you asking me for this?”

“Don’t ask,” Peter said, pressing his face against Norman’s desk. He’d never wanted so much to keel over before, and he’d once been smashed between the Rhino and a semi-truck. Broken bones for _weeks_.

But Seymour made his decision, despite Peter’s lack of persuasive skills. “If this isn’t to knock some executive off their pedestal, you’re paying my court fees,” he threatened. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Peter didn’t move his head from the desk. He didn’t move it for a long while, actually. Cold air rustled through the office, pushing glass and loose papers out and over the other side of the office, where they fell. Peter felt like he was falling too, spiraling into himself as sleep deprivation, pain, and blood loss ripped consciousness from his grasping fingertips.

Then his phone chirped. He looked at the text, seeing only a collection of numbers. It looked like a birthday. Sitting up, Peter pulled Norman’s keyboard to him, his numb fingers plucking out each digit one key at a time.

It worked. He was in. Good.

Peter wasn’t interested in Norman’s emails or his search history or even any half finished research projects he had on his hard drive. No, the only thing Peter was interested in was Norman’s security system—and, as he thought, Norman was too paranoid not to have shortcut access to his own security feed. Like son, like father, Peter thought.

He opened up the program and started rewinding footage, wondering if he was going to watch Harry snap out of his drugged-induced sleep or oblivious cops storm the office with a door buster or some other sinister scenario work itself out on the monitor.

There was no audio, but he watched the Avengers walk out with Harry’s tank between them, Gwen upright and nervous, but otherwise alright. That answered that question. They’d finally seen through his ruse, _damnit._ He rewound some more, watching the glass explode inward with the sudden influx of metal plated superheroes. He rewound again and watched Spider-Man stride to the elevators, only to duck into the stairs at the last minute.

_So slick, Peter_ , he thought bitterly. _So freaking slick._

Then his finger slipped and he rewound too far, and it was weeks earlier. He watched Norman slap Harry out of the seat. Peter stilled, hands frozen over the keyboard like gargoyle claws. On the screen, Norman pointed up at the lab stairs, snarling something. Picking himself up carefully, Harry submitted, trudging up the steps like a man walking to his death. But why?

Peter switched cameras, watching the upstairs feed. He watched Gwen talk to the Avengers. Then he watched Gwen try to hide, mounting a spirited defense against Hawkeye when it was clear they knew she was there. Then he watched himself talking to Gwen, so many hours ago, confident—like any of his stupid plans ever worked.

Peter went back further in increments of weeks. Bouts of nothing were interspersed with hours of Norman typing up notes and looking at samples through microscopes. Then, suddenly, there was Harry. Norman sat him down in a chair, monologuing at him while he slipped a syringe in his skin, depositing something deep in his bloodstream. The entire time, Harry kept his gaze forward, his eyes wide and scared.

Peter forcefully paused the video, stunned. Then, a moment later, he leaned in, attention caught by the serial numbers attached to the video: 9-239ALPHA.

Alpha Lab. This was it. It was above him the entire time. He’d found it. And with it, he’d found the executive who had authorized American Son. “Norman, how could you…”

Peter stood, accidentally pressing down hard on the keyboard. The feeds went bonkers, trying to respond to seven commands at once. Peter jerked his hands away. The monitor cycled through three windows, time jumping backwards and forwards. Finally, it settled on the feed to Norman’s office.

Peter flinched back. On the monitor, Norman Osborn was dressed from shoulder to toe in the green metal, leather, and Kevlar battle armor.

His boss had a mask under his arm, casual as can be. He strode over to the side wall. Nudging a painting aside, he revealed a nine digit number pad. On it, he typed a passcode, numbers Peter could barely see over his shoulder. A wall opened up, and Norman Osborn, the Green Goblin, disappeared beyond it.

Heart pounding in his ears, Peter lurched away from the desk, stumbling and falling as he quickly crossed the room, catching himself on the false wall. He shoved the painting aside, knocking it off the wall. His fingers, swollen and uncoordinated, entered the wrong passcode twice before the wall finally opened, revealing a secret room.

It was empty of people… but full of all the wrong things. There were rows of green armor and twisted goblin masks. Crates of bombs and knives. Two hovercrafts mounted with cruel looking blades. Vials of burbling, violently colored liquids in shades of green and orange.

And, beyond it, by the shelfful, were rows and rows of metal containers. Each one of them were carefully labeled VITANOVA.

12 canisters were missing.

 

-

 

“ _Hi, this is Peter Parker. If you’d like to leave a message, please wait until after the beep._ ”

“No,” Wade hissed, pleading. He tried again, hoping against hope, wishing against wish.

“ _Hi, this is Peter Parker-_ ”

With a frustrated yell, Wade threw his phone. It shattered into three pieces against a marble-lined pillar, falling on the ground of Tony Stark’s old penthouse. Trembling violently, Wade breathed heavily through his mouth, shoulders bunched up to his ears.

“Someone has a temper,” Wanda muttered from the couch, flipping through a magazine.

Wade whirled around at her, stabbing a finger in her direction. “Eat hot glue, Sabrina!”

Wanda didn’t bother looking at him. Instead, she lifted a glowing red hand, twirling it in a circle. Like a hook was inserted in his belt, Wade was launched sideways in the air, smashing against the same pillar as his phone, shoulder first. He slid down it, knees crashing against wrecked plastic and metal. The pain handily anchored him in the moment and, yeah. Okay. He deserved that.

Still on his knees, Wade pawed sadly through the remains of his phone, trying to piece it together. Even if he could do the impossible, Peter wasn’t picking up. Peter wasn’t ever going to. Peter had the unshaking determination of a corgi trying to pull a piece of steak off a counter. Sure, the task in front of him was insurmountable, but gosh darn it, he was gonna keep trying.

And even worse, Webs, he-

“ _All you had to do was stay home, Wade! If she’s dead, it’s all your fault!_ ”

Wade had a tiny handful of people in his life that he actually gave a fuck about, and Webs, his favorite hero, was one of them. Spidey had sounded so very, very angry. So who was she? Who had Wade put in danger? Wade still didn’t know. And, on top of that, they’d finally caught Spidey... but it maybe wasn’t Spidey? Or was it?

Wade didn’t know which, and Steven “Loose Lips Sink Ships” Rogers wasn’t telling anyone a damn thing. Wade clutched both sides of his head, fingers digging into leather.

Gah! That was it. He had to leave. He couldn’t take being here any longer. He was done. He was gonna make like Dolly Parton, leaving, leaving this old town.

But not before ripping the American Dream a new one. Wade wasn’t a classy lady like Dolly. No sir. Seething, Wade hauled himself to his feet and made his way to the elevator to find the elusive captain.

The elevator closed around him. Wade looked up, blinking at the bright lights and gentle background music. The cart hitched once, then slowly started gliding down. The lights shaded a subtle, calming blue.

Well. Fuck. Someone sensed his blood lust. Cue elevator montage.

Wade slapped himself, pacing up and down the cart to keep his blood pumping. It wasn’t working. Fuck! “Curse you and your calming musical choices, Rebecca!” he barked at the ceiling. The AI didn’t answer, but the elevator noticeably slowed down. On the far wall, a screen lit up, showing a playlist of puppies falling over things.

Wade turned away from it. “I will not be manipulated!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something bright and fluffy. He turned, then plastered himself close to the monitor. “Gasp, he’s so little! _Who let him near those stairs_.”

He barely noticed FRIDAY ceasing her efforts with the lights, music, or speed, cooing at the sight of a golden lab puppy dancing fretfully on his little paws at the top of the stairs. Best elevator, best AI. The old Avengers Tower blew Oscorp’s out of the water, hands down.

Speaking of which, who the hell let him in this building, right? He’d tried breaking in once on a lark back in its heyday but never succeeded. Once the Avengers jumped ship to the compound in upstate New York, he’d been tempted to try again but just never got around to it. Oh, he always knew the tower wasn’t as decommissioned as Stark wanted everyone to believe. It couldn’t be. The Hulk whipped a Norse god around the penthouse like a chew toy. The streets around it saw the birth of the Avengers as a team, a _real_ team. And, above the tower, Iron Man launched a nuke into space. There was no way they’d get rid of the space; the tower was practically a landmark at this point.

And yet it had been dark for years, and the building really showed it. Even now, only about two or three floors of the phallic shaped monument to Stark’s ego were currently being used: the penthouse, the floor with a partially stocked kitchen and a line of cots set up like military barracks, and, just below it, a floor full of rooms equipped with state of the art medical equipment.

It was to the medical floor Wade went. After all, Steve wasn’t the kind of commander who twiddled his thumbs, navel gazing, while an ally was injured.

Wade was stroked the wall when the elevator finally opened. “Send me links, FRIDAY,” he called out. Parting was such sweet sorrow.

He bounded out of the elevator, head whipping back and forth. Long hallways were lit up from the outside, late morning sunshine scattering across gleaming, bare surfaces. Wade wasn’t the only one around. In fact, most of the crowd he’d allied with were scattered around in mixed groups, some standing and some sitting on benches. Steve wasn’t immediately in sight, so Wade made for the first set of sliding double doors.

Stark spotted him first. “Hey, no rubberneckers,” he said, shoving away from the wall to intercept Wade.

Ignoring him, Wade planted his palm in Tony’s face and pushed him out of the way. He stuck his head into the medical wing. “Cap,” he said urgently.  “I need to-”

Sue Storm and Sam Wilson were extracting Harry Osborn from a fluid-filled tube. The Oscorp scientist, Dr. Stacy, looked up at him curiously from where she was supporting Harry’s head. Clint came up from behind her, wheeling a prepped gurney, and, carefully, the group transferred the unconscious man from the liquid bath to the dry mattress, unhooking him from IV drips and oxygen apparatuses. 

And all Wade could stare at was that limp form clad in Spidey spandex. His mind spiralled madly.

Spidey knew his real name. Spidey called out to him like a friend. Spidey’s blood was on his katana. And Spidey referenced a conversation Wade had had with _Peter Parker_ -

The Thing hauled him out of the medical wing by the neck, pushing him into the hallway. Wade jerked away wordlessly, readjusting his collar. Ben said something to him, reaching out, but Wade couldn’t hear him. Daredevil too, but Wade speed-walked away, freaking out over the Spidey-Who-Was-Or-Wasn’t.

Wade wasn’t prone to overthinking things. He’d been told that Spidey was sick and out of control. He’d been willing to stop his hero, to save his hero, and he’d pinned Spidey to the wall like a bug to do it. But the Spidey in that room didn’t have a broken hand or arm with a hole in it, and it was wrong, wrong, _wrong_ -

Wade collapsed on a bench, burying his head in his hands. He wanted to leave. He wanted to cry. He wanted to throw up. And more than all that, he wanted to know what the _fuck_ was going on.

“-heard we jumped on bad information.” Wade turned his head, eyes narrowing. Further down the hallway, near a ceiling to floor window, were Danny Rand, Jessica Jones, Reed Richards, and Hope Van Dyne in an unlikely pow wow.

“Or maybe we just weren’t acting on the good information,” Reed said grimly. He held his phone faceup between them, playing a voicemail. “ _Hello, Dr. Richards. This is Peter Parker-_ ”

Wade’s head shot up at the sound of his sweetie. The longer the message went on, the more and more strained he sounded. He half-stood, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

“Oh my god,” Jessica muttered. “I have calls from him too.”

“What I don’t get is why would someone want us to think Harry Osborn was Spidey,” Hope said, cradling her arm. “Who would benefit from that? And why would they-”

Whatever other question their injured Wasp had was cut off by a reverberating, deafening metal bang. 

They jerked away from the window as something massive unfolded over it on the other side of the glass. Like collapsing dominos, it flew from left to right, expanding across the windows, slicing through natural light until it looked like night outside. Then, a fizzling whine rippled through the space. The lights of Jessica and Reed’s phones abruptly died. So did all of the low level ambient light of the tower, plunging them all into darkness.

There was a long moment of silence as everyone held their breath. Then-

“Johnny,” Luke called out somewhere to the right of him. Wade rubbed his eyes frantically, blinking. “Johnny, give us some light.”

Johnny lit up reluctantly, keeping it down to a dull glow. He was at the far end of the hallway, standing by himself. “Uh, why not Iron Fist?”

“The Immortal Iron Fist should not be used so lightly,” Danny countered, arms crossed over his chest.

Ho ho ho, what? Wade giggled without humor, mouth twisting in a nasty smirk. “Ha, pun.” He pulled out his katana, leveling it with Danny’s throat. “Light up, Rudolph, or I’ll find another use for that fist.” Get it? The joke was fisting.

Danny looked unimpressed. “I’m stronger than you.”

“Sure,” Wade agreed easily. “But I’m actually immortal, not pretending to be. You really want to throw down right now, beeyatch?”

“Danny,” Jessica said quietly. “It’s really dark in here.”

At his friend’s words, Danny’s resolve bent just a little. Mouth flattening in a thin line, he lifted his fist, summoning all the combined spirits of all forgotten glowbrite toys—or so Wade liked to think.

Danny looked super unhappy, which at any other time would have brightened up his day.

Johnny wandered closer to them all. “See, thanks. Just cause a guy can light up a little-”

“Shut up, Torch,” Jessica barked, “and shine some more light so we can figure out what’s going on here.” Johnny pouted at her.

Despite the arguments, the whole group of them converged closer to both light sources, approaching the medical wing door. Without power, it wasn’t opening, but a knock and a shout confirmed that the people inside were doing okay. The Thing took one door. Jessica took the other. With a shriek of complaining gears and bolts, they got the sliding doors opened, and several of them spilled inside.

“-so this is your fault,” Steve was saying somewhere behind him, his voice tight. Wade turned around. So did Murdock, the only one not standing in a circle of mutation and/or magic-induced light.

That sounded like a more interesting conversation. He followed it, finding Steve and Stark arguing in another room. Steve had a lighter in his hand, an old-looking beast of a one that probably came right out of World War II.

“No! Well, yes, but no, not today,” Stark was saying, waving his arm to the outside. “This is a defense system I built into the tower after the Chitauri invasion. It creates a metal shell around the building. It’s built to keep people in and out.”

“What about the EMP?” Murdock demanded from Wade’s elbow. Steve and Tony turned, surprised that they had eavesdroppers. “Come on, everyone noticed the EMP that just went through the building.”

Stark sighed irritably, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. But he had people to answer to, and more now that Reed, Luke, and Natasha had followed Wade and Murdock. And more followed them, attracted by the sound of raised voices.

“Not that it matters, but… when I was tinkering with this system, AIM and HYDRA and HAMMER were up my ass 24/7. I wanted an option that could equalize us. Maybe.” Stark licked his lips, shaking his head. “But this… I never _finished_ it, okay? It was a dud. Useless. All of our people were gone or in Europe or, later, in a new compound. I never came back and worked the kinks out.”

Steve covered his face. “Tony...”

“No,” Stark countered, whirling back on his teammate. “No. Listen, Steve. It might not be a finished system, but I was careful. I have very, very specific triggers for this defense system, and none of them have been tripped. And without those triggers, I don’t even have the means to get us out of here.” Stark spun once, eyes darting up and down, like he was imagining a blueprint to the building. Then his eyes widened in memory, and he turned back to Steve. “But Pepper does. If we can get a message to Pepper.”

“Let me get right on that,” Luke said flatly. “Oh wait, some asshole paired his home with an unfinished EMP.”

“Former home,” Tony said doggedly. “I don’t live here anymore. None of us do. I haven’t even been in here for four years.”

Reed raised his hand. “Just curious, but how many more of your half-finished projects could be cobbled together into a doomsday device?”

“I’d remind you about your own problems with sentient robots,” Stark said tartly, “but that seems like low hanging fruit.” Also hypocritical, Wade thought. Also big talk from a small man who just wiped out his best defenses. Wade almost liked him for it.

Reed twitched towards him, fists clenching. Before Mr. Fantastic could become Mr. Badass, their argument was pierced by a loud, agonized yell.

Sue’s voice followed it. “I need you to stay calm.”

“It hurts, please!” Harry Osborn was begging. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts-”

There was almost a stampede to get back to the medical wing. Wade got in front of it with the judicial use of elbows and foul play.

So he was one of the first people to see Sue straining, trying to keep Harry’s shoulders on the gurney as he twisted and screamed.

“Jessica, hold him down,” she ordered.

Jessica looked petrified. “What?”

“ _Do it!_ ”

Jessica hurried to the head of the gurney, pressing Harry’s torso flat against the mattress with both hands. Harry let out a half-thwarted, half-relieved cry, squirming underneath her. But he was no longer trying to curl up in a ball. His legs too were shifting restly, but it seemed like Sue had been able to strap those down earlier.

Johnny and Danny were shoved closer to the bed to give Sue light, and Sue wordlessly tossed a pair of gloves at her husband. He slipped into a nurse role with his doctor wife almost immediately, prepping a tray of needles as Sue tried to tend to her patient.

Dr. Stacy had one of Harry’s hands clasped between two of her own. “Where does it hurt? Honey, you have to tell us.” She kept repeating it, whispering it like a prayer.

Harry sucked in a horrible rattling breath, his face purpling. His knuckles were bone white. Wade thought maybe he would scream again, that he was completely out of his senses. But he nodded then, teeth gritted, hand flexing behind hers.

“S-stomach,” he ground out, eyes popping open. “Stomach!” His head shot back, almost slamming into Jessica’s face as he writhed, tendons popping out in his neck.

Sue went for his stomach. When she couldn’t find a break in the suit, Reed put a pair of scissors in her hand. With quick snips, she cut open the spandex, revealing Harry’s stomach.

And a weirdly shaped hernia. That is, if hernias were purple, had obvious corners, and were bisected with a thick line of black stitches.

Sue looked up at Steve. “This could be anything,” she warned. Next to her, Reed was giving Harry an injection. The rigidity of the man’s body was smoothing out in hitching stages, though he never quite gave up the sobbing breath.

Steve looked on grimly. “Why didn’t we notice this earlier?”

Dr. Stacy was the one who answered. “When he was under the influence of Vitanova, he had a very high pain resistance. Even a little bit of a healing factor.” She bowed her head. “Now he has none of that because of me.”

“Morphine will work on him better now,” Reed promised. And it was. Harry was no longer straining against them. Jessica was able to take her hands off of him, and he stayed on the gurney, flat and almost limp again.

Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Do it,” he said finally.

Wade had to hand it to Sue. Her incision was precise and focused, layering perfectly over the stitching. Once beyond it, she had more tissue to cut through; As Dr. Stacy had pointed out, Harry had indeed started to heal around it, whatever it was.

“Dr. Stacy,” Sue called out gently.

Reluctantly letting go of Harry’s hand, Dr. Stacy rounded the bed, helping Sue manage some forceps as Sue slowly pulled out something that resembled a bag. It was viscera-covered and pink, though it must have been yellow or white in the past. 

Reluctantly, as she needed to tend to the open wound, Sue handed off the bag to Dr. Stacy. Dr. Stacy held it in her gloved fingers, wide-eyed, shellshocked, and looking like this was going to be a recurring scene in her nightmares.

From behind her, Wade plucked it gently out of her hands, untying it to reveal a tape recorder. Turning to the rest of the group, he wordlessly pushed play.

The voice that came out of the recorder was low, taunting, and pleased. “Found my present, have you?” It was the Green Goblin. “Little did you know your friend and savior would be the one spelling your end.”

In the gurney, Harry covered his face with his arms, shaking as the man on the other end laughed and laughed and laughed.

“What the hell?” Luke rasped, backing up.

“Long have I watched you abominations toil and take that which you didn’t deserve. Long have I watched you upset the natural order of the world. No more.” The villain's voice deepened in a growl. “The world is _mine_ to reshape. The world is _mine_ to control. The age of superheroes is finally over, and all will see how futile hope really is.” The tape was quiet with only the sound of heavy breathing for a moment. Then, when he spoke again, his voice held the faintest note of regret. “The sacrifice of Spider-Man will see the start of a new world. You may survive this day, but mark my words, your legacy will be nothing but blood and ash.”

The recording stopped there. Hardly anyone dared to breathe except for Harry, who panted and heaved in the silence. Then he spoke.

“I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry,” he said in a hush. A tear ran down his face. “I know what he’s going to do.” He looked at Dr. Stacy with wide, desperate eyes. “ _It’s Vitanova._ ”

Dr. Stacy nodded rapidly, leaning close to him and wrapping her hands in his. They both seemed uncaring about the blood that smeared between them. “He poisoned you with it. I know, I figured it out, it’s okay-”

“That’s not it. Not everything,” Harry said urgently. “He’s been testing it… on me. On himself too, I think.” He shook his head. “It’s not a cure to him. It’s a weapon. A tool. A means to an end. And now he’s going to unleash it in the middle of Manhattan.” He grasped at her hands tighter, desperate. “If it’s anything like the rat trials-”

Dr. Stacy froze. Then she rapidly shook her head. “No. No, that would be- _He can’t do that_.”

“Dr. Stacy,” Steve interrupted. “Why is that bad?”

Dr. Stacy’s shoulders hunched slightly. “Because… because Vitanova is the reason why Harry attacked Jessica. Why Harry attacked me. Why Harry broke into the building last night. It-” She sucked in a huge breath, then turned wide eyes on Steve. “In every variant we tested, about 40% of the rats were immune to all symptoms. For them, the cancer cure was _real_. It worked.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “But the other 60% developed hyper-aggressive tendencies, hurting and killing each other en masse.” She rapidly shook her head, gaze jerking up again. “But why would he do such a thing?”

Clint shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “If the world started falling apart, neighbor fighting neighbor, and the heroes you expect to save you fail to answer the call, what would you think?” He sounded resigned.

“We need to get out of here,” Johnny whispered.

“I’m working on it,” Stark said, striding to the door. He caught the lighter Steve tossed him and quickly disappeared into the darkness.

“While he’s getting us out, we need to develop more of the cure for the cure,” Reed said firmly. “We need to assume we’re exiting into a full pandemic. I’ll lead the effort. Sue, I need you.” His wife nodded, most of her attention on closing up Harry’s wound. A moment later, Reed turned to Dr. Stacy. “Dr. Stacy, your work is incredible. We’ll need your help with this, especially with our limited capacity.”

“She’s the best,” Harry said shakily.

“Scott and I will keep an eye on our friend here,” Hope volunteered, patting Harry on the shoulder. Harry smiled shakily at the woman, ever the diplomat.

“And I’ll play medic,” Sam said, stepping up.

“We’ll need the lab space next door,” Reed warned them.

“Go,” Steve said, dismissing them.

The couple pulled off their gloves, changing position with Sam. They left quickly. Only Dr. Stacy lingered long enough to press a kiss against Harry’s cheek. Oh.

Steve turned to the rest of them. “Tony is working on the wall. And, in the meantime, the EMP has fried most of the electronics. There might still be something salvageable in this building still. We need to look around and find anything we can turn into a light source or a power source.”

Murdock pulled away from the wall. “I don’t need light to operate. I can go.”

“Me too,” Wanda said, eyes glowing red. Ben and Rhodes flinched away from her, surprised at her sudden appearance. “I came down the elevator shaft. _Relax_.”

Steve dismissed them next. “We also don’t know how long we’re going to be in here. We need food. We need water. We need to be ready for the fact that we may have to hunker down here for hours, maybe even days. Wade-”

“Hard pass,” Wade said brusquely.

Steve hesitated, then moved on. Wade walked past him, dropping the recorder carelessly on the table next to the gurney. Sam shot him a warning look from where he was finishing Harry’s wound dressing, but otherwise didn’t stop him from coming up to the side of the bed, looking the spandex-clad form from boot to wrong head of hair.

Harry swallowed thickly. “H-hey, Deadpool.” His voice was wrong. Not just the sound of it, but also the cadence. Wade could see the white all around his eyes.

Without warning, Wade grabbed his forearm and turned it, then looked at his hands. He needed to double check. Healing factors fucked up solid detective work sometimes, so he scrutinized the evidence carefully. Harry had broad hands, arranged in the correct structure. His stomach was sliced to ribbons, but both arms were as smooth as a baby’s butt. And then, of course, there was that hair-

Wade dropped him, gripping the rails of the gurney silently.

“Don’t you think the kid’s had enough without you being such a mouth breather?” Sam said in an undertone.

Wade ignored the better looking Wilson. He had eyes only for his target, his _assignment_ … or so he’d thought.

“You started all of this,” Wade said in a deadly quiet voice.

“Yeah.” Forgetting himself, Harry started to sit up. He winced almost immediately, dropping back down. Then, quickly, he said, “I- I know you’ve been trying to talk to me for months, and I just wanted to-”

“Shut up,” Wade hissed mercilessly.

He shut up. Spidey wouldn’t have shut up. Spidey would have narrowed his white lenses at him and started bickering. Stance wide, arms crossed over his chest, torso thrust out-

The man on the bed wasn’t Webs. He was just another guy, brutalized and scared. A guinea pig in some asshole’s science experiment.

Wade’s head dropped for a moment. He pushed away from the bed, glad there were much fewer people in the wing.

“Captain. A word.”

Wade walked out. Steve followed, bringing light with him. Torch had made torches. Any other day, Wade would have so many jokes.

“When the hell were you going to decide to be honest with me, huh?” Wade demanded. “Where’s Webs?”

“Wade,” Steve said tiredly.

“I didn’t fight bargain-brand Spidey, Cap. I fought the _real deal_ , the one with super strength, superspeed, and agility like a mother fucker. He was an entirely different person.” And an angry one, Wade remembered. Angry and disappointed. And _hurt_. Quieter, Wade asked, “Cap, what did you make me do? I was sent after the guy who attacked Jessica. The guy who had evidence tying him to multiple murders in his apartment. But the guy I went after was not Harry Osborn.”

_You have nicer hair than Harry Osborn_ , he’d said stupidly, still wanting to compliment the hero after ruining his day. And it was nicer. Fluffier. Darker. Thicker. The kind you wanted to pet.

Steve was shaking his head. “There’s a lot we don’t know about Spider-Man still-”

“Well, you want to know what I do know?” Wade interrupted harshly. “All those years ago, you asked me something when I wanted nothing more than to die and take the world with me. Do you remember what it was?” Wade didn’t wait for him to respond. “You asked if there was one person left in the world that made all of the suffering worth it.” Choking on the irony, Wade let out a fit of hysterical giggling. It died in an instant. Then, flatly, he said, “Do you want to take a wild fucking guess who my one person, my hero was?”

It was a spunky little spider-person in red and blue.

“Wade,” Steve breathed, looking pained.

Wade clapped a hand over his chest. “I was willing to do what it took to get Webs back under control and safe. _Whatever it took_. I was so willing and ready to stop him—because not stopping him would have hurt him worse.” Wade blinked at him rapidly. Softer, he said, “But we pointed the finger at the wrong guy, Cap. I handicapped a freaking superhero for nothing. And there is no way Webs is going to ignore Gobby. There is no freaking way.” 

Steve didn’t say anything for a moment. Wade turned away from him, drowning under a swirling mess of hopelessness and despair. He jabbed a hand at the window, at the metal shell beyond it. “And now we’re in here, and he’s out there. And if he goes after Gobby alone, he’s dead, and _you know that_. We did that to him. I did that to my hero.” Wade stared at his palms. “I’m going to throw up.”

A hand clapped on his shoulder. “You were trying to save him. You did all of this to save him. That means something.”

“Bullshit,” Wade said dully. “It means bupkis.”

Steve’s hand tightened, and he turned Wade around. That broad, pretty, heroic face was tight with determination. “It means something because we’re not stopping here. We’re not wallowing in our mistakes. We’re owning them.” Steve’s eyes were sharp in the flickering light. “We’re going to take care of Harry Osborn. We’re going to figure out how to cure Vitanova. And then we’re going to get out of this tower and find Spider-Man.” He let go of Wade then, a pleading note entering his voice. “But I can’t do this alone. I can’t get out and find Spidey. And I can’t stop the Green Goblin and his plans. Not without you.” He stuck out a hand between them. “So what are you going to do?”

Wade looked down at the hand, driven silent by the gesture and the equally genuine words. Then, feeling something like hope creep out from under the heavy weight of guilt, he slowly nodded. “Whatever you want me to do, Cap.”

They shook on it.

 

-

 

Peter loaded up the new cartridges on his belt, testing his webshooters carefully before slinging the empty cartridges into his stashed backpack, webbing it back to the Empire State building. Then he pushed off, wind whistling past his ears as he dropped at breakneck speeds towards 34th Street. He threw out a line at the last moment, which let him swing across the street, landing with a roll on a flat-topped building.

He stayed on his knee for a moment longer. He was so very, very tired. And he had no idea where to go.

Screams echoed around him, warring with the constant whine of ambulances, fire engines, and ambulances. People were going nuts on the streets, attacking everyone around them. Cops were rushing around, trying to subdue violent citizens, only for some of them to turn on their brothers in arms, affected by the same pandemic. Peter had jumped into at least twenty different skirmishes so far, and it wasn’t making a dent.

Peter had to find the source, and he knew just who to ask.

Peter stood finally, pulling out his phone. He hit record. “Hey, New York. It’s me, Spidey,” he said tiredly, looking into the camera. He started walking across the roof. “I know I haven’t given you all a lot of reasons to trust me.”

In fact, he had given them plenty more reasons to distrust him, sometimes even on purpose. Beyond the Spidey Clone Army, he had never taken his social media accounts seriously. By now, they were widely considered fakes at best and high quality trolls at worse. Peter ate it up, tagging everything from photos of pigeons to selfies with superheroes with the words _#incrediblyhandsomedude or #amazingspider-man? #youdecide_.

Then there was the whole fact that vigilantism made plenty of people cold from the get go. Nothing he could do about that. Not to mention the whole prior twenty-four hours, jeez… Did people really think he’d gone full supervillain?

Grimacing behind his mask, Peter shook his head. “If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust me either. But I gotta ask you all for a favor anyway.” Peter sucked in a huge breath, then wagged a finger at the camera. “First, if you’re not in Manhattan, _stay out_. Please. It’s not safe. Second, if you are in Manhattan, _stay inside_. The streets are bad… but I don’t need to tell you that. You already know.” They could hear it. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear it in the video too. “But if you’re in Manhattan, though, and you see lean, green, and mean fly by your window? Let me know. The faster we can catch the Green Goblin, the faster we can make the city safe.” Peter hesitated. Then, awkwardly, he said, “Thanks.”

He ended the recording, quickly uploading the video. Then he crammed his phone in his belt and threw himself off the side of the building, landing with a crunch of metal on top of an Oscorp-branded semi-truck.

Peter crawled across the top of it, peering into the driverless front compartment before hopping off and rounding the back. He dropped to the ground and scurried under the parked vehicle, pulling out a tiny screwdriver to work on the computer system installed there. It was an after-factory piece that didn’t match the semi-truck around it, a nifty little system that opened and shut the back compartment after a remote command had been issued. Peter disabled it, pulled himself out from under the truck, webbed the back of it for good measure, and took off into the sky.

It was the seventh such truck he’d disabled. He’d only had to open up one to piece it together, and there were tons of these trucks parked suspiciously around Manhattan.

It all came back to the Oscorp defense contracts. There were only so many wars you could fight overseas, which meant the demand for military equipment was never going to skyrocket like consumer products. There was a limit, and Oscorp didn’t operate well under limits. Of course Oscorp would look for other buyers. But what other use did military-grade weapons have outside of wars and the Department of Defense? On top of that, armies were incredibly leery about pointing their weaponry at civilians on domestic soil, and police were already getting hard pushback over their current arsenal. It was a saturated market.

You’d think invading aliens or evil cults or demon uprisings would expand it. But when superheroes were a plenty and remained the preferred response to such things, what purpose was there for tanks on the streets?

Oscorp wasn’t about making the world a better place. It was all about making the world a more profitable place.

Norman was creating a disaster scenario. It was set up like a marketing presentation, proving undeniable purpose and scalability. The first step was to tie the hands of local superhero alliances. The second was to undermine and overwhelm the local police.

The third was to force a live demonstration of their product.

Every Oscorp truck was full of mobile jails, walking turrets, and other anti-citizen weaponry, and Norman could unleash them at anytime. But he was waiting. Waiting until everyone was super desperate. All the while, he was the one releasing canisters of Vitanova all over Manhattan, causing grief and horror and pain to all who were unlucky to be there that day.

It was so goddamn evil, Peter wanted to rip his own hair out.

Shots were fired. Even though his Spidey sense didn’t go off, Peter still flinched mid-swing, wobbling to the left and catching himself on the edge of a billboard sign. He looked out. Three buildings over and in an open rooftop courtyard, a group of three police officers were converging on-

The Green Goblin.

Peter scrambled up the sign and launched himself towards the fight.

Two of the police officers went down under explosives, hitting the ground to the tune of the villain’s horrible laughter. The third ( _Yuri_ , Peter recognized) unloaded a full clip on him until her gun clicked empty. When that did nothing, she threw her gun to the side, took out her club, and went after the Green Goblin. She got in two good hits, cracking something in the Green Goblin’s mask when his gauntlet shot out, closing over her throat. He lifted her in the air slowly, laughing as she scratched and tore at his arm desperately.

Swinging in, Peter flexed both feet, pressing his ankles together. And when that kick connected, it was oh so very satisfying.

The Green Goblin smashed against a decorative pillar, falling over with it. At the same time, Yuri spilled out onto the ground, landing on her hands and knees, but she almost immediately got back up. She pawed at one of her downed coworkers, picking up a new gun.

The Goblin rose from the wreckage, idly dusting his shoulders free of debris. “My my,” he cackled. “Didn’t expect to see you free so quickly. Then again, you are made of better material than that Stark riffraff. How’s your stomach feeling, Harry?”

“How’s your profit margin feeling, _Norman_?” Peter snapped back.

The Green Goblin paused. “You ungrateful sniveling creature,” he hissed, suddenly sounding much more like himself. “I let you steal my research for your vigilante games, and this is how you repay me? I should have cut you into pieces and looked at you under a microscope!”

Holding her ribs, Yuri hobbled up in line with Peter. Grimly, she lifted her gun, firing three more shots at the Green Goblin. The first went wide. The second bounced off metal plating. The third hit the weakness in the mask she’d created with her club, shattering the jaw piece.

The Green Goblin snarled at this, clutching at his face. His hand came back, covered with blood. “You chose the wrong side, Harry!” he hissed, seething. Then he turned, jumping over the side of the building. His hovercraft rose to meet him, catching him and shooting across the Manhattan sky.

Torn, Peter looked between the Green Goblin’s trail and the damaged cop next to him, who was drooping.

He chose Yuri. “You okay?” He was waved off irritably. Yuri stepped away from him, her steps growing stronger with each second. Like she ran off bitterness and spite.

“We got a tip,” Yuri said shortly. “He was storing the gas up here.” She walked up to a box covered in a gray tarp. Immediately, she yanked it aside, peering into it with a stern expression. “What the hell is Vitanova anyway?” Peter didn’t answer. The question wasn’t aimed at him. “And we have no idea how many of those damn gas canisters he has in the first place.”

“Twelve, at least,” Peter said, peering over her shoulder. There were only seven in the box..

Yuri seemed to remember that he was there. She turned on him. “What happened to calling me?”

Peter backed up a step. “Um. Well. This Goblin thing’s escalated pretty quickly-”

Yuri followed him. “I’m not talking about this. I’m talking about _last night_.”

Right. Peter made a face. Like he’d pull her into that. Like he’d pull anyone into that at all.

Yuri grabbed his arm when he started to turn away. She couldn’t have known what she was grabbing instead, but to her credit, she let go as soon as she felt wet warm blood, milliseconds before Peter let out a hiss of pain. Peter grimaced, lifting his arm to examine the blood seeping through his makeshift web bandage. Under her gaze, he pulled out another line of it, reinforcing the compression.

Yuri let out a low sigh. Then she shook her head. “You’re in no shape to help. Go home, Spidey.” With that, she walked away from him, crouching and checking the pulse of one of her coworkers. The other officer shifted, groaning as he woke up. The third officer was on his knees already, hands clamping over a shallow but bloody head wound.

They were a mess. All four of them.

Peter followed Yuri doggedly. “You’re telling me the NYPD has something that can take down a flying supervillain? This, I gotta see.”

Yuri got back up on her feet, shooting Peter a warning look. “Spidey-”

“If you don’t want my help, I get it,” Peter interrupted. “But at least make sure you have the Avengers playing backup. If not, the Four.”

Yuri’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” he challenged.

“Can’t. They’re… busy.” Yuri’s eyes flicked over his shoulder tellingly. He followed her gaze, but all he saw was a busy skyline full of familiar buildings. “The Tower’s on lockdown, and they’re all inside. The goblin guy took credit for it. Surprised you haven’t heard yet.”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing you can help with right now.” She clapped a hand on his shoulder, gently this time. “Look, you’re right. The sky battle’s not our strength, and our leaders are leery about pulling in helicopters in these conditions. So...” She released him and put her hands on her hips, blowing out a breath. After a beat, she looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “You think you can get him subdued?”

“Yes.” Peter didn’t have a choice. If the Avengers and everyone else were locked in that tower, Peter was the only chance they had to turn things around. Even so, he felt paralyzed by a bleak sense of renewed hopelessness. He had been aware Norman had a hand in distracting his friends with what he did to Harry, but he had no idea that Norman had effectively imprisoned them all together. No wonder Gobby expressed surprise at seeing Peter.

“Good. Subdue him. Web him up. Call me. _Then go home._ ” She lifted a hand when Peter started to protest. “And I don’t want to hear you getting caught up in fighting off any more citizens. It’s not good for your reputation. It’s not good for ours either, but we can take it.”

“Sounds good, boss.”

Yuri squinted at him warily like he was a toddler with a hand grenade. “That troll account really you?”

Peter was baffled. “I- what?”

Yuri didn’t answer, pulling out her phone. A moment later, he heard his own voice coming out of the speaker. She leveled a bitter, unhappy frown at what she saw. “Yeah, it’s you.” She pocketed her phone. “I’ll get our information officer to tweet, share it, whatever. Just so everyone knows you’re serious.”

“Thank you,” he said, touched. Then his attention was grabbed by the sound of warping metal and shattering glass, like a car crash. He and Yuri hurried to the edge of the roof just in time to watch a skinny twelve year old girl throw a car across the intersection, screaming angrily at the top of her lungs, tears streaming down her face. Yuri swallowed a surprised breath, blinking rapidly at the spectacle.

“You sure you don’t need my help?” Peter asked.

“I stand by it,” she said, but she pulled out a taser, expression haunted. “Go. The faster you ground Gobby, the fewer kids I have to knock out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said, taking a few steps back. “Let everyone know they’re innocent. They’re not doing this of their own free will.”

“Got it.”

Running, Peter leapt off the side of the building, swinging through Manhattan once more.

He had a goblin to catch.

 

-

 

“Mad at me?” Tony asked. He was sitting on the ground of his old penthouse. A panel of glass had been removed, allowing Tony direct access to the shell that surrounded the entire building.

Everyone else was doing great at their assigned tasks, okay? Just super. The Osborn kid was stabilized and sleeping. The Nerd Herd in the lab were hard at work replicating Dr. Stacy’s formula. Reed even had an idea for an aerosol dispersal if things got really bad. Ben and Natasha had found a stash of MREs to add to their rapidly dwindling food stash, and Clint and Jessica had figured out the water situation.

Better yet, it was found out that the untested EMP didn’t destroy any batteries in the building. Sure, it had wrecked a lot of sensitive electrical equipment, including the HUD for both the Iron Man and War Machine armors, but it was still surprising to see what had survived, protected by intentional (and unintentional) Faraday Cages. Tony had traded in a manual screwdriver and a knife for an electrical screwdriver, blowtorch, flash light and an energy meter.

But Tony’s work was still incredibly dangerous. He wanted JARVIS. He _needed_ FRIDAY. He was working off memory here without blueprints or plans, and to someone who invented as much as Tony did, four or five years might as well have been fifty. He wasn’t dealing with metal sheeting. He was dealing with expanding nanotech interlaced with a lattice of an energy grid not unlike the arc reactor. If he opened up the wrong part of the shell, even a little bit, he could literally blow his hand off.

It was the kind of ignoble end Tony would have preferred without an audience, thank you. Not that Tony ever got what he wanted in life.

“Why would I be mad at you?” Steve asked curiously.

“Um,” Tony said, drawing out the word obnoxiously. “Because it’s my impenetrable tower we’re all now stuck in? Just a thought.”

“You did everything you could to make this work. I’m the one who screwed up and led the team on bad intel.” Quieter, Steve said, “I spent so much time over-analyzing your biases that I completely missed mine, and my issues were the ones that got us in trouble.”

Tony’s hand slipped. He stabbed his other hand with the rotating end of the screwdriver and jerked away, swearing. He stood then, shaking it out, and turned to face his fearless leader. Steve stared back at him, shoulders hunched and mouth turned downward.

“This can’t be your first bad mission,” Tony said abruptly. He knew it wasn’t. Hell, he’d been a part of some of Steve’s worst, both as friend and as foe.

Steve didn’t rise to the obvious bait, the invitation to tread over old tired grounds. Instead, he closed his eyes. “Tony, I… I paid Wade to figure out who Spider-Man is,” he admitted.

Tony paused. “Huh.” Hadn’t expected that one. He fiddled with his ring to stall for time. “So did you find out his name?” He chuckled, not waiting for Steve’s response. “Of course, that’s not an activity that inspires a lot of trust. Hypocrite, thy name is Steve Rogers.”

Not that Tony had much room to ride on a high horse himself. This whole mess they were stuck in was his own distrustful cross to bear. He hadn’t seen it as such at the time, but it wasn’t like he had let Steve know this was a feature. Hell, he’d done most of the tweaking while Steve was overseas, an enemy of the state.

In Tony’s mind, he was just planning ahead. Prevention was the best offense, not defense.

And so here they were. Stuck. In the dark. Even worse, Tony had never made his AI or even his suit very resistant to the particular type of EMP that had blown out the tower. It was on his to-do list.

His to-do list was very long. 

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about that now,” Steve said wryly. He picked up the abandoned energy meter. “So. What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing. It’s, uh. Delicate operation.”

“Come on,” Steve pushed, walking over to the metal hull. He was smiling a little. “I can follow orders.”

A warning bell went off in Tony’s mind. “No, really, I-”

Steve was already too close. His hand was reaching out, about to trace the tool marks Tony, in a fit of anger, had put on his practically impenetrable shield.

Tony’s ears buzzed. He lunged forward, jerking Steve back harshly. Steve went with it, moving just in time to avoid the bright bolt of pure energy that scorched Tony’s floors. Tiles exploded to dust and the whole penthouse was thrown in harsh relief. Then the light was gone.

Tony blinked away the harsh afterimages, releasing Steve slowly. “So… what would you say if there’s a reason why I told everyone not to touch the shiny metal?”

Steve’s face was a spinning roulette of emotions, starting with entrenched hurt and ending with a dawning sort of anger. “You were touching it. I _saw_ you touch it.”

Tony waved his arms dismissively. “Yeah, but I’m not enhanced or mutated or-”

Steve was always quicker than Tony gave him credit for. “You built a defense field that can specifically target enhanced and mutated individuals over normal citizens?” Steve hissed, eyes flashing. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Why on Earth would you invent this?”

Tony stuck out his chin defensively. “If I figured it out, I guarantee you everyone else has too.”

“I think you underestimate how much of a defense and weapon manufacturer innovator you continue to be.”

There was a compliment in there somewhere, but Tony couldn’t enjoy it. Not when Steve looked so betrayed. He leapt straight into an explanation. “Look, the shell, it’s, it’s- it’s part metal ions, sure, and a bunch of stuff and tech. Threaded throughout it is an energy lattice that powers it, keeping the nanotech complete and in formation, but also defends it from being damaged.”

“From people like me,” Steve said flatly.

“From people like you. Because this was meant to protect people like you.”

“And _contain_ people like me.”

“Not forever,” Tony promised quickly. “This shell has fourteen different openings in the lattice. The metal there, it’s built to part, to open up like a- a- a garage door. Once it’s open, we’re out. No more containment.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Then what’s the hold up?”

That was the rub, wasn’t it? Tony looked at the shell. “It’s… not opening like it should. Like the hinges weren’t properly formed. I should be able to lift it, but I…” Tony flattened his hand on the metal where Steve had just touched. If he had touched just an inch or two over, they wouldn’t have had such a light show. Tony’s hair stood on end at the reminder of how dangerous this was.

Tony reached back, wordlessly beckoning for the energy meter. “There’s thirteen others. I will get us out of here, Steve.”

Steve hesitated. Then he handed the tool over, clapping it into Tony’s palm. “If someone like me, some random citizen on the street with something extra in their blood comes up to the tower right now and tries to touch it-”

“Like people do,” Tony interrupted. He flattened the meter against the shell. Chalk. He needed chalk to trace the outline of their escape hatch. For his safety as well as the safety of others.

“Like people do,” Steve agrees. “What happens then?”

“Nothing,” Tony said, peering over his shoulder. Steve looked doubtful. “Nothing, I promise. The outside of this shield was meant to absorb blows, not deliver them.” Tony smiled a bit guiltily. “I uh… may have taken some inspiration from Wakanda. If we ever got hit by a nuke, we’d be powered up for a hundred years.”

Steve sighed, rubbing his face with a hand. He stayed like that for a minute, silent. Tony waited, like it was a verdict from a court case that could radically change the direction of his entire life.

“All of this… it’s a lot to unpack,” Steve said finally. However, with the admirable focus he was so well known for, he set it aside. “Fine, you can pursue this by yourself. I’ll tell the others. Reiterate the warning about the shell to avoid any accidents.”

Tony relaxed minutely, turning away from Steve again. “Wasn’t asking permission. My screw up, my tower, my mess to fix.”

“I know,” Steve said, warmth coming back to his voice. “I have faith in you.”

Well. If that didn’t leave Tony all tingly inside, nothing would. He let Steve take a few more steps before saying, “Wade will forgive you. You know that, right?” Tony didn’t understand the affection Steve had for the weird psychopath, and, frankly, he didn’t want to.

“Not if Spider-Man dies,” Steve said grimly.

God, Tony didn’t want to even think about that. He was hoping against hope that Spider-Man was sleeping this off somewhere and that the cops or SHIELD or even their MIA X-Men friends had wrapped Gobby up in a nice, neat little bow for the Raft to take.

But he doubted it.

He rounded his shoulders, glaring up at the shell, the armor, that kept them all inside. The next panel was going to work.

It had to.

 

-

 

There was utter chaos on the streets—rage-filled civilians fighting and chasing each other and the few who were immune. Above them, the Green Goblin cackled wildly, zooming above the crowd with a leaking canister under his arm.

And Peter chased Gobby.

His plea on social media was paying off. While the first ten to fifteen were full of know-it-alls hastily debunking his message like they expected an achievement at the end, the posts started gaining traction. More and more people started sharing it, reiterating Peter’s warning to stay out of Manhattan, but also stressing that if they saw something, they needed to say something. It was the world’s worst game of Where’s Waldo, but New Yorkers were watching the skies, and tweeting the second they saw anything.

It had all led to this moment, this chase over Park Avenue where Peter was just. Perpetually. Out. Of. Reach.

But not anymore.

From fifteen feet away, Peter webbed the leaking canister closed and _yanked_. The Green Goblin, clinging to it, jerked to an almost comical stop, which put him right in range of Peter’s foot. The hoverboard went one direction, the villain the other, and the Green Goblin crashed through the fifteenth floor of a building, rolling ass over feet into someone’s condo. Glass flew everywhere.

Showing some sense, the residents of the condo bolted, escaping from view before the Green Goblin could do much more than start to stand, let alone take any of them hostage. Peter jerked the canister from Norman’s loose grip, webbing it even more thoroughly shut before sticking it to the side of the building.

But when he turned around, the Green Goblin was gone. Peter froze. He remembered this. Gobby had some sort of image inducer that acted like an invisibility cloak. Tensing, Peter crouched low, straining his senses.

Then he heard the whine of the hovercraft and jumped to the ceiling, barely in time to avoid the blades. The machine made a wide arc in the wrecked condo, dipping slightly under the weight of its invisible rider. Several gas bombs were thrown at Peter then, exploding outward and obscuring his vision. His Spidey senses screamed at him; Peter dropped to the floor, covering his head with his hands. Above him, he heard the ceiling crumble and break, raining dust and debris on him.

Then, above him, the hovercraft shot out of the broken windows with a sharp whine. Shoving himself up to his knees, Peter fired his web shooter behind him blindly. His aim was true.

Common sense, though? Probably not. He was jerked out of the condo with Gobby, flying through the air hard enough to hit the corner of another building. Peter gritted his teeth, enduring it.

But the hovercraft wasn’t built to handle two people. Already, it was veering ever downward, sloping hard to the ground. Visible again, Norman was trying to knock Peter off by swinging Peter into every sign and light pole and building he could, but he wasn’t correcting the craft. They were going down. They were going to crash.

Making a quick decision, Peter let go of his line to the machine, landing on a billboard. He shot out another line, this time to the back of Gobby’s head. Then he fell back into an alleyway between two buildings, nature’s counter weight.

The Green Goblin jerked back, feet unseating from his flying machine and unable to do anything about it. He crashed into the sign, taking a chunk of it out with him. Like Peter, he fell, stories flying by in a blur of color and light.

Peter shot out more webbing, trying to catch them both on the fire escapes, but the hovercraft, clearly programmed to follow Norman around, zipped through the alley way, slicing through both lines of web. They separated, falling the rest of the way instead, and the hovercraft, tangled up in web, smashed into the opposite wall before falling with them.

Peter crashed into the hood of an Oscorp semi-trunk, the Green Goblin in a dumpster. For Peter, the landing was abrupt and brutal. Oxygen forced out of his lungs, Peter gasped at the sky, unable to do anything but pant. Black spots danced in his vision, and his body screamed in unrelenting pain. This might be it, he thought. This might be the limit of how much he could take.

Then a gauntlet closed around his calf, yanking him bodily off the truck, and he was forced to reassess that entirely.

Peter caught himself on his feet, but just barely. A fist smashed against his cheek, then his chin. Crying out, Peter forced up his arms, trying to block the barrage of wild blows. The Green Goblin was furious and strong, but not well coordinated. Peter could handle this. He could handle being a punching bag for a little while longer.  

Then a seemingly-dodged punch resulted in Gobby slicing a four inch gash into Peter’s chest. Then a well timed uppercut caught Peter under his jaw, slamming his teeth together and knocking him back several paces. Peter’s vision spun wildly out of control.

Then something else caught his senses, dialing up the perpetual warning to a full siren: the sound of pounding feet all around them.

Crowds and crowds of people spilled into their alleyway and, in seconds, Peter and the Green Goblin were surrounded by Vitanova-poisoned citizens.

They were hauled away from each other brutally, separated in the press of bodies. Peter was shoved up and into a wall by a coffee shop worker and a retiree in dark shades with enough force to embed him an inch into the wall. Peter dropped into a crouch, arms up to try and block the relentless blows to his head, the kicks to his side.

Then he sprang straight up into the air, pushing off with almost all of his strength. The jump rippled through the crowd around him, knocking them into each other and onto their backs. From the safety of a fire escape, Peter fired his webshooters quickly, sticking as many as he could to the ground. 

Beyond them, Norman was being overwhelmed by his own mob. His mask had been ripped off, as well as a good chunk of the armor over his shoulders and chest. He was lashing out, drawing blood, which only seemed to anger his attackers further. Sucking in a fortifying breath, Peter jumped into the fray, trying to extricate the Green Goblin from a mess of his own making.

For every three people Peter jerked away from Norman and webbed to a wall, another five seemed to appear. At one point, a fresh swarm forced Norman and Peter back to back before they were able to move away from each other. But finally, fifteen grueling minutes later, the waves died down to a trickle.

“Fools!” the Green Goblin hissed, backhanding a stockbroker viciously. As the man staggered back, Gobby’s hand moved automatically to his empty belt. Peter had stolen his bombs off of him at one point, and most of his knives too.

Peter pinned a pimply teenage girl to a door, sticking her to it. “This is all on you, Norman! Face the consequences.”

The Green Goblin scoffed, sounding less like the cackling monster and more like the coldly professional CEO Peter knew. “There is no such thing as consequences. Only results.”

“Well, results sure look like a visit to the ER!”

“A minor setback,” Norman spat, but his hand ran tellingly over his stomach where a mechanic had swung a crowbar. Another group of three citizens ran into the alleyway. One of them was armed with a bat. “This only accelerates my timeline, nothing more.” Norman lifted his remaining gauntlet to his mouth. “Project Overlord, _engage_.”

The Oscorp truck, almost completely obscured by an absurd amount of webbing and writhing, raging people, hissed. The backdoor slowly rolled up with a rattling noise. A moment later, a metal leg edged out of the door, finding a foothold on the wet, dirty ground. Then another leg. And another. And another.

Unable to divide his attention between the two threats, Peter fought off the new citizens instead, knocking the bat away from one. Spinning, he bent under an armhold that wrapped around his neck, throwing the owner over his shoulder once he got a good handhold on the man’s bulging arm.

While he struggled, the Green Goblin’s machine-like turret spun lazily as it continued to walk away from its home. Behind it walked something Peter could only describe as a cage with legs, bars bending and straightening with every step. And there were more unfolding from the semi-truck, like multi-limbed metal spiders scuttling out of a water spout.

The first turret settled, anchoring itself in the ground. The man who had been choking Peter out grabbed the fallen bat, running at Peter again. Then the barrel of the turret spun before firing a wad of heavy polymer at Peter’s assailant.

It wrapped around the man like a straightjacket. He stopped midstep, bat dropping as he visibly struggled. Then the polymer hardened quickly. The man started wheezing, animal fear breaking through the rage.

Reacting to that, Peter scrambled up to him, trying to loosen the polymer himself, but it resisted him. The man fell to his knees, his face purpling as he was suddenly only able to take shallow breaths. Peter followed him down. He worked his good hand between the man and the strange material. He grunted, putting all of his strength into breaking it, bending it, anything.

Just when the polymer started to give, a chain shot out, sticking into the polymer. The stranger was yanked away from Peter, dragged on his face to the bending, moving cage. Once he was in the cage, it snapped shut around him, collapsing all around the man until he only had inches of wiggle room.

“Like it?” Norman asked smugly. “I got the idea from you.” 

It was unbelievably cruel.

The other two attackers, having yanked themselves free of Peter’s webs, froze before hightailing it out of the alley. They got all the way to the end of it before a wad of polymer slammed into their backs. Before they were dragged back. Before they were caged.

Peter sidestepped his own wad of polymer just in time, watching it splatter thickly against the wall. “So this is why there are semi-trucks all over Manhattan.” He was furious.

Gobby tapped his gauntlet. The machines froze in place, unmoving. “Short distance signal,” Norman told him lazily, thin mouth pulled into a cold smile. “If I sent out a longer one, I could end this city’s torment in an instant.”

“Then why don’t you?” Peter snarled. Dark spots darted around in his vision, taking up more and more of it. His ears were starting to buzz.

“I want them to beg. _Oh will someone, won’t someone save us? Pretty please_?” Norman spread his arms wide with a shark’s smile, all teeth. “What do you say, Spider-Man? Would you beg on their behalf? I might even accept it.” When Peter did nothing but stare at him, he snorted, picking up the dropped bat. He weighed it consideringly, wandering closer to Peter. “That’s your problem, spider. No commitment. No _grit_. You’ve never taken anything serious in your life, and it really shows in your work ethic.”

His Spidey sense didn’t warn him. It hadn’t stopped screaming at him since they landed in that horrible alley. So when Norman swung the bat at Peter’s knee, it connected.

Crying out, Peter dropped to his good knee, collapsing on his side a moment later. His everything hurt. His everything was stiff, bound up tight in knots and stabbed through with metal poles. As he shoved himself up on one hand, his bad one, he was faced with the very real possibility that he may never be able to get up under his own speed.

Norman circled him idly, tracing the tip of the bat across his rounded shoulders. “Like a new civilization rising after the collapse of an old order, this is how Oscorp ascends.” His voice was the voice of a fanatic. “When heroes fall, who stands for the people? _Oscorp_. When heroes fail, who defends our nation? _Oscorp_ -”

“Yeah, right,” Peter rasped defiantly at the ground. Moving slow, Peter got on his hands and knees, willing himself to stand. It didn’t work. His body was shaking. “You’re a solution in search of a problem. They’ll see through you in an _instant_...”

The bat came under him, pushing his chin up. Norman had a facade of concern written over his duplicitous face. “Really? Says who?” He pushed Peter’s chin higher until his neck started to hurt. “The vigilante turned supervillain?”

Peter jerked his face away, pulling back until he was sitting on his haunches, curled over himself in a protective hunch. “I know who you are. You won’t get away with this.”

The Green Goblin’s chuckle started low, in his chest. It expanded like a balloon, vibrating through the alley until all Peter could think of, all Peter could hear was that scratchy, high pitched screech of a cackle. It died abruptly, leaving nothing behind but ringing, awful silence.

“I should have known you weren’t Harry,” Norman said. The brief hint of an acknowledgement of his failure faded under a superior boasting. “Harry’s sense of self-preservation was always greater than yours. He knows when to bow to his betters and when to keep his mouth shut. He also knows when to give up gracefully.” Norman was sneering now, looking down at Peter like he was gum on the bottom of his shoes. “But you? You’re a tiny bird, beating itself to death against a window that is rusted shut. For what? _Them?_ ”

He gestured at the people all around them. Then he pressed the tip of his bat into Peter’s chest, digging into the open wound there. “I always have a plan, you little fool,” he hissed, smirk widening at Peter’s pained grunt, the helpless way he pawed at the bat even as he rocked on his heels. He tapped his gauntlet and, all around him, his machines came alive again.

“You always-” Peter flattened his bad hand on the ground, gearing up for what might be his final act of rebellion.

“You always monologue too?”

Then Peter webbed Norman’s head, jerking it down quickly to meet the floor with a crack. He leapt back, landing on top of the semi-truck. He scuttled to the end of it, looking inside the trailer. He was almost clipped in the chin by the swinging barrel of another turret. They were alert again, marching out slowly like metal, multi-limbed soldiers. Peter darted to the left, then to the right, dodging heavy polymer wads from the ones that were already free.

He had to warn Yuri. He shot out a line to the top of the roof.

“Where are you going, Spidey?” Norman’s voice rose tauntingly below him. He had a wide, cheek splitting grin on his face, interrupted only by two lines of blood from his broken nose. “You haven’t see all of my product’s uses. After all, what good is civilian suppression technology without a bit of _lethal force_?”

The barrels of the two freed turrets spun, extending another foot. They stilled, whirling noises fading into silence.

Then Peter smelled the gunpowder.

Thinking quickly, Peter fired a wad of webbing at Norman’s face. It took, distracting him, but the machines followed their own logic, and so they kept going. Peter dropped behind the semi-truck, flattening to his stomach and wrapping his arms over his head as heavy caliber bullets punched holes through the trailer. The only sound louder was the sound of Gobby’s insane cackling.

Peter had a sudden feeling of being distinctly out of his league and unprepared. Norman was right. He was the one with the plan. Spider-Man rarely had one. He tended to just throw himself repeatedly at a problem until something changed. No wonder all the other superheroes distrusted him now. He was such a liability.

Peter tightened his hand into a fist. Plan or no plan, he couldn’t leave Norman out on the street with a walking weapon of war. He just couldn’t. 

He army-crawled his way to the end of the truck, then shot out a line. The turrets tracked him easily, rotating without a hitch. Peter gritted his teeth again, the rattle of bullets tearing up concrete and glass behind him as he swung around the machines.

They each had a full 360 degree rotation, but it took time for them to turn. Peter took advantage of this, webbing around the machines mercilessly, wrapping up their legs until even those many, spindly limbs couldn’t keep their balance. Both turrets crashed into the ground, grinding and digging at the ground until they stilled. They barely missed Norman, still struggling with his new mask. Snarling and spinning now, yanking viciously at his face, Norman was no threat to anyone but himself.

But the machines kept marching out. Peter spun on his heel, shooting two lines of webs on Norman’s chest plate. He yanked with all his strength, jerking the taller man straight off his feet and at Peter. Peter caught him, holding his weight for a second before turning and hurling his boss into one of the creeping jails. The jail didn’t close, wouldn’t close without Norman’s say so, but a hefty application of web made that a moot point.

Limping a little now, Peter grabbed one of the fallen turrets, picking it up and throwing it into the opening of the truck trailer. The third of such turrets, which had just cleared the truck, collapsed backwards in a tangle of limbs under the weight of its fallen brethren. Sensing new resistance, the machines finally stopped marching out.

Peter could finally breathe. He immediately made a phone call. “Yuri! I’m on Park Avenue, near 86th Street,” he said without preamble. “Gobby’s down, captured by his own machines, but he planted gun turrets all over Manhattan. He can activate them at any time, and there’s a couple of active ones here with me.” Peter watched Norman finally rip a chunk of Peter’s webbing off his face, eyes squinting hatefully.

Next to Peter, the trailer made an alarming screech, the walls starting to bulge outwards. Peter faced it grimly. Behind him, Norman let out a haunting, wretched laugh.

“The NYPD is already converging on you, I can’t stop them,” Yuri said, her voice tight. “If you can’t stop the turrets, they’ll be ripped to shreds.”

“I know,” Peter said. He hung up the phone, leaping over to the trailer opening. The crunched turrets at the opening flexed helplessly, unable to do more than wiggle. But beyond them, the other machines, jails and turrets alike, were steadily applying pressure to the walls around them, breaking out from the inside.

Peter fired as many webs as he could, binding limbs and mechanisms and machines together, clogging gears and blocking joints. When that only slowed them, he took his last full web cartridge from his belt and tampered it, throwing in the middle of the trailer. After a moment, webbing exploded outward, drenching everything in sticky, wet, and thick fluid. Only then did the machines slowly, finally, stop.

Peter let out a low, relieved breath.

Then, behind him, the last fallen turret let out a metallic shriek. Peter instantly leapt straight into the air, shooting out a line to the top of the building. Under him, the turret’s base rotated until it was able to get back on it’s spindly legs, barrel rotating with deadly intent. It seemed to move even faster now, like it had learned something from the last fight.

Peter almost cleared the height of the building by the time the first wave of bullets came after him. Landing on a billboard, he was able to fling himself the opposite direction in time to watch that same billboard get ripped apart by the rounds. Red and blue lights danced in the corner of his vision.

Grim, Peter corrected himself, swinging to the opposite side of the alley, wanting to keep the turret within sight.

He knew immediately it was a mistake. At the same time, his senses screamed a warning—but Peter had nowhere to go. Rattling bullets sliced through his web. Peter fell.

New York saw him fall down, down, down the side of that building.

And when he landed, he didn’t get back up.


	13. Chapter 13

Peter woke up to the sight of spinning colors and gut-wrenching nausea. He heaved once, trying to sit up. He passed out again.

The next time he woke up, Peter was moving. But he was also stationary, lying flat on his back in the uncomfortable plastic bucket of a NYPD police car. He pawed his face automatically. He was still masked.

“Spider-Man,” Yuri said, looking over her shoulder at him through the grate. “You’re awake.” She had a crusted-over cut through her left eyebrow and a bruised cheek, but the sharp-edged grin she sent him was all hard won victory, zero pain.

“This is the closest I’ve ever been to being arrested,” he said, half-admiring. But he wasn’t being taken in. That much was obvious. The window was unrolled, letting in soothing, painful winter air. She wouldn’t have given him such an easy way out  if she was serious about it. “The last turret?

Yuri’s eyes went back to the road. “I got to you about a minute or so after your call.” Her smirk widened. “You looked preoccupied, so… I rammed my car into it.” That explained why her suspension sounded like crap. And why there were bullet holes in her windshield. It also explained why she looked so darn pleased with herself.

“And… Gobby?”

Her smirk fell. “A bunch of suits came to pick him up. They said they were SHIELD.” Yuri met his eyes in the rearview mirror, unspoken worry breaking through the glee. Had she made the right decision, letting them take Norman?

“They’ll take him to the Raft,” Peter reassured her. He was familiar with the way SHIELD operated. They were shady sometimes and not always helpful. But they were one of the few agencies around that were equipped to detain and rehabilitate (if they could) supervillains, so Peter occasionally cut them some slack.

“Right,” Yuri said, letting out a low breath between pursed lips. As a police officer, she probably didn’t like having to turn over a suspect to another agency, but this was New York. The Green Goblin was hardly the first suspect to be lost over a jurisdiction issue.

Peter relaxed back into the seat. Almost immediately, he tried sitting up again. “I should-”

Yuri was already shaking her head at him. “You should _nothing_ , okay? The City of New York has made a collective decision for you.” She picked up and wiggled her phone at him through the grate. “#SpideyGoHome has been trending for the last three hours. They weren’t just watching Gobby, you know.”

Yuri was unhappy again. Peter wilted a little. “Oh.” Strength leaving him, he sagged back into the seat, eyes closing.

Yuri’s hands flexed audibly on the steering wheel. “I found you in a ditch, by the way. Remember when I said I didn't want to find you face down in a ditch?” Peter didn’t respond. His vision was swimming too much, his brain packed with cotton. “Spidey? Spidey!”

Peter woke up again to the sight of a red cross. The visual worked out into a first aid kit propped up on his stomach. Aching, he groped at it limply, then pulled his hand back, staring at it. Someone had splinted it, doing a much better job than he had when he wadded it up in web and hoped for the best. Someone had also tended to the worst of his wounds, slapping butterfly bandages to the gashes in his chest and icing his knee, hip, and a few other extremities that were currently two sizes too big and throbbing. That same someone had put his head on a folded leader jacket, left the door near his head open so he could get fresh air, and parked them nowhere near a precinct.

Wavering, Peter sat up, listening to his Florence Nightingale get reamed out by her boss on the phone.

“The situation is being contained,” Yuri said in a quiet voice that brokered little argument.

But Peter’s hearing meant no phone call was ever truly private—not to him. “-people homicidal on the streets, no heroes in sight. The mayor riding my ass to speak to the people, but what am I supposed to say? They don’t want to hear from me-”

He kept ranting at her, claiming he would have taken even that “cold fish Iron Fist” over no one. Pepper Potts and SHIELD were not credible enough on their own, apparently. Then he went on a long rant about how even the X-Men weren’t stepping up to the plate, which was unfair. Peter didn’t blame them for claiming neutrality when he’d been blacklisted, and he definitely didn’t blame them for not wading into this mess. They’d had enough setbacks without the inevitably awful public backlash against battle-trained mutants fighting against crazed but otherwise normal people.

Peter, no matter what Yuri thought, could take the bad press, easy. J. Jonah Jameson might even come out of retirement out of sheer, rage-induced joy to pontificate on his many ills.

Peter chuckled roughly at the thought, shifting in his seat. The noise turned quickly into a groan. He curled into himself, just one big old bag of pain right now. From the top of his head to his tippy toes. He sobered, looking out the windshield.

From here, he could see the old Avengers Tower in the distance for the first time.

He’d been warned about it, but, for a moment, he was in awe. Only Tony Stark could turn an entire skyscraper into a metal fortress. It gleamed stone gray all the way to the top, shielding the whole building in a manner not unlike the man’s own suit of armor.

“-need the Avengers! The Four! The Defenders! Anyone! I’d take a d-list mutant known only on street corners at this point. Somebody who can talk to the masses. You’re out there. You have anyone at all who can answer for this mess?”

“No one,” Yuri lied, bristling protectively.

Peter could answer for this. But Norman was right. Who would trust a vigilante turned supervillain? New York needed to be reassured. New York needed to know that they weren’t being abandoned.

He swallowed, eyes fixated on the gleaming structure that was the Avengers Tower. All the real heroes were in there, and New York needed them.

Peter rubbed his good hand over his face, shaking. It wasn’t enough to beat Gobby. It wasn’t enough to make sure the civilians were safe. There was one last thing he had to do today before he could give up. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbled into his hand. He spun in his seat, kicking his feet out the door.

A minute later, Yuri ended her call with a soft swear, making her way back to her police cruiser. She paused outside his open door. “Spidey?”

He was already gone.

 

-

 

Tony was starting to feel something close to panic. Worse, he had no one to blame but himself. After all, this was the kind of shit that happened when you didn’t have extensive field tests. Oh, he’d had the computer models. The theoretical tests. The field tests of smaller versions in his lab. But anything scaled up fifty or so stories was bound to have issues. He knew that.

The tower’s defense was supposed to be a secret, a last ditch effort to protect people when all else had failed.

And now he knew that eight of the fourteen emergency escapes did not work. Something hadn’t formed properly. The space was there, but none of the functionality, and nothing Tony could do could change that.

Oh, the eighth almost worked. Seams formed obediently. Handholds too. Tony dug his fingers in and lifted like he was supposed to. But the hatch stuck about two inches up, and it was almost a relief when it did. Cool, beautiful air came in through that small, singular gap in the building’s armor, teasing its false freedom.

Tony sat down in front of it, cramped in the crawl space. He’d cut through about a foot of building exterior to get to the hatch. No easy glass removal here. And, if the hatch had opened, well…

There would be nowhere to go but down.

The first escape panel would have opened straight on the helicopter pad. The second would have dropped him there too, but from ten feet up. The third, from thirty feet up. The landing pad was his first choice, if he’d had one. He had a small, solar powered generator there, gathering up enough juice to power up a very dated satellite phone.

But the universe hated him, and those panels, naturally, didn’t work.

Panels four through seven would have opened up underneath the helicopter pad, each one lower than the last. This part of the building was normally at a steep angle. The plating would have preserved that, and, if any of those escapes had opened, Tony would have had a slide from hell under his feet, but it would have led all the way to the ground. Even as damaged as his suit was from his EMP, he could have made it. Probably.

The eighth panel was at the tippy top of the building, in a crawl space not meant for humans, and on the wrong side of the building. If it had opened, Tony wouldn’t have had his slide. He wouldn’t have had his landing pad. He wouldn’t have even had his armor, as the EMP had wrecked his ability to break it down to its nanotech components, and there was no way he’d be able to squeeze the full, actualized armor into this crawl space.

All he would have had was his squishy body and a very, very long fall.

The fact that it had opened at all was a slap in the face.

“Shit,” Tony muttered. For a second, he let himself wallow in this failure and in the dawning realization that he needed to hunt down panels nine through fourteen. And, on top of that, there was a very real possibility none of them would work.

Tony palmed his face, staring blankly at the panel in front of him. This could be the only one in the entire building that actually worked. Everything in him said he needed to see this one through, despite any of his misgiving about what happened next. But how? His usual feats of engineering ranged from things that involved leverage and weights to things that required tiny parts and tinier fiddlings. He did fine with both— _excelled_ at both—but not in an 11.5 inch wide space. There was operating under tight situations, then there was this—trying to figure out how to leverage an eight hundred pound panel with only inches of wiggle room.

The Avengers Tower was huge, he reminded himself, trying to swallow past sudden, spinning claustophia. He was grossly slick with sweat, and he was fighting with an urge to run. His adrenal glands didn’t rule his body or mind, but, god, they sure thought they did. Gritting his teeth, he pushed down the inevitable panic attack, trying to think about what he needed to do, how he was going to get them all out of there, and not how he’d doomed them all to an uncaring, metal coffin-

Then there was a very careful knock on the other side of the panel. Mind wiping clean, Tony froze against the opposite side of the crawlspace. Here they were, in one of the tallest buildings in New York, and here he was, at the tippy top, about to entertain a visitor.

There weren’t a whole lot of people who could make it up there. He could think of a couple of people he wanted to see. He could think of many, many more he did not.

Tony hesitated, then knocked back, finishing the rhythm that his visitor had started. Then he waited, watching as familiar red gloved hands inched under the gap, bracketed by soft-toed boots.

Then the panel groaned. It tried and failed to resist the pressure as the man on the other side of it forced the mechanism to move on its preset railings, like a giant clock with huge, antiquated cogs slowed by weather and time.

The hatch finally opened completely, leaving nothing but his hero illuminated in light, New York a bustling and teeming scene of organized chaos below him. Then his hero shifted towards him, and common sense ripped back into place like a pulled stitch.

“Don’t touch anything,” he snapped, surging forward, hands extended.

Spider-Man tensed. “Mr. Stark-”

Oh god. He sounded wounded, hurt. Even worse, Tony had never heard that voice before without tech screwing with the frequency. It messed with his head, making him think it sounded familiar, maybe, like he’d known the man behind the mask from somewhere else.

“There’s an internal defense mechanism, okay? You touch it, you get zapped, and getting zapped is the last thing you need today, kid.”

“Okay,” Spider-Man said, obediently sticking his hands back on the outer shell.

The kid made an impressive figure. Always did, what with that spandex and a superhero’s metabolism. But now, all Spidey looked like was impressively bad. His suit was ripped up and battered, interrupted by half-assed first aid via web and better first aid rendered by someone with a kit and a better understanding of the human body. Old blood turned his reds and blues to dull brown in these places, and there was just the faintest tremble in Spider-Man’s muscles, like he was finally succumbing to exhaustion. His mask was torn in four places, revealing a strong jawline and tufts of brown hair. His left lens was cracked in three places and no longer constricted, which Tony knew had to be hell on the kid’s senses.

And still he waited there, delicately poised on the side of an armored skyscraper, head cocked like he could do this all day. But the problem with dealing with super soldiers, talented super spies, and literal gods was that Tony was all too aware that there was no such thing as _invincible_.

“Hey, kid.” Tony swallowed past a feeling of guilt. “Any chance you can get us to the landing pad?”

He could. And he did. And if he hadn’t, and Spidey had dropped him, Tony would have taken his lumps without complaint. It was his fault. But, as it was, Spider-Man took them on an easy swing around the building, landing lightly with Tony on the end of the pad. Like the rest of the building, it gleamed gray in the winter sun.

Once his feet touched metal, Tony walked away from Spider-Man quickly. He made a beeline for the generator that powered his satellite phone. “The Green Goblin?” he threw over his shoulder.

“Detained,” Spider-Man said, following him after a beat. “Everyone else?”

“They’re on different floors, working on different things,” Tony said, hands on the generator. It was cold. He ducked down, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Like the cure for Gobby’s mean vaccine.”

“Is that what they’re calling it?”

Tony shrugged. “It’s a working title.” He hesitated. “So, you’re not Harry.” When he glanced at Spider-Man out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man’s whole body was tense.

“No, I’m not,” he said flatly. Then, gentler, he asked, “Is he-”

“He’s fine. Cured, even.” Tony settled back on his haunches. The metal shell had been designed to go under the generator, leaving it, and his emergency phone, alone. Instead, it had gone straight through it, destroying the generator and any chance Tony had to call Pepper. Just one more failure in a long line of them, really.

There was no way in hell Tony was asking Spider-Man to bring him all the way to the ground. And, sure, Tony was aware that there were more options in play that he wasn’t considering, like the fact that they could jury rig something with Sam’s wings and have him glide down to the next tallest building and get help. With Sam’s skillset, he could definitely do that, even without the delicate electronics that helped him excel as the Falcon.

But there was a reason why in an Afghanistan cave, Tony had elected to build a suit of armor to kill his captors himself instead of building something that would have communicated with Rhodey. It was his mistake, his batch of ugly. It was his job to rub it out.

Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose, then shot to his feet. “That goblin guy fried all of our electronics. Even FRIDAY’s down.” Tony tapped the broken generator. “But I had a backup plan. Backup plan is broken so now…” Tony trailed off. He walked to the edge of the landing pad and looked out over New York. “Now I need to figure out who to get to Pepper. She’s the one who can turn this tin can into a building.”

Tony shouldn’t have said anything. From here, he could see Spider-Man gearing up to pitch in. “I can get you down.”

“No way,” Tony said flatly. He was already regretting asking the trip from the escape panel.

“Then I’ll go in your place? Let Ms. Potts know she needs to do… whatever she needs to do?”

“That won’t work. It requires two passwords. Mine and hers.” Rhodey had a third, but he was in the same boat as Tony. Happy had a fourth, but he wasn’t even in the country. If he got pulled into this, he would never agree to take another vacation ever again.

Spider-Man extended a hand. “Then give me your password, and I’ll take it to her.”

“That’s- That’s an interesting idea, but there is no way she would-” Tony came to a full stop, wanting to kick himself.

Spider-Man stared at him with those large, inscrutable eyes. “There is no way she would trust someone her husband has been chasing around the city... right?” Tony felt like a huge ass, but he didn’t deny it.

After a beat, Spidey sucked in a sigh, looking away sharply. He fumbled at his waist, pulling something out from under his suit top. “This isn’t nearly so dramatic, but will this do?”

Whatever it was, he was offering it to Tony. Tony closed the distance between the two of them carefully, scrutinizing the object like it was an alien artifact.

Once he realized what it was, he could have slapped himself. It was a _phone_. It had a broken screen a third of the way down, strangely sticky from something he guessed was runoff fluid from the webs. Spider-Man entered in a password before wordlessly spinning it towards Tony. He had only 13% battery left.

“Oh, thank god,” Tony breathed. “This is why you’re my favorite.” He swiped the phone from Spider-Man’s hand, quickly dialing a memorized number.

She responded on the second ring. “Pep, hey.” Tony lit up at the sound of her voice, then cringed at the start of a well-earned reaming. “Hey, now. That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

She didn’t think so. And why wouldn’t she be steamed? He’d promised her months ago that he was taking a step back from these matters, especially with little Morgan on the way. “Honey, about that sixty-something story elephant in the room…”

Pepper pivoted mid-rant, because Pep was a rockstar. She forced him through his paces, making him verify his identity five different ways, one of which was on the fly. When FRIDAY got back to her with an additional verification via drone (Tony cheekily waved at it), Pepper finally started up the process to bring down the building’s armor.

“Okay, go,” Pepper prompted him, business-like.

He rattled off an 18-number code. And then, gently, he said, “Your favorite restaurant? I’m buying.”

“You better be,” she said fiercely. He heard FRIDAY say something to her on the other side of the line. Then, with an odd note in her voice, she said, “Um. This might not be the best time, but… is Spider-Man doing okay?”

Tony paused at that, then turned away from the scenery.

Spider-Man was sitting on the other side of the landing pad, his legs hanging over the edge. He was staring blankly into the distance. It seemed awful to ignore him when he was like this—a crumpled piece of paper ready to disappear in the wind.

“Jury’s out. Update you later?”

“And this isn’t going to hurt either of you, right?”

“Nah. Nanotech.” If it did unmake itself right under their feet, they’d fall all of, what? Three inches? That was nothing compared to fifty-some stories. “Later, Pep.”

Tony hung up, pausing. Then, making a decision, he walked over to Spider-Man, sitting next to him. He handed over the phone. “She’s disengaging it remotely.”

“She can do that?”

Tony smiled wryly at the innocent question. He’d given Pepper control over most things that could kill him—or save him—long before he picked up the suit.

“Yup. Now we wait.” In the corner of his eye, he saw Spider-Man start to push up. “Stay? Best view in the city.”

After a beat, Spidey dropped back, legs curling up slightly in a half-concession to his usual crouch. There was something achingly defensive about his posture, something fragile like glass.

And, see, Tony was a master at talking. He staked his professional life on it, talking his way into and out of trouble. Persuading naysayers and yaysayers to take a knee. Even rallying the troops when he really, really had to. But he hadn’t a single clue what to say now. Not a damn one.

In the end, Spider-Man broke the silence, chuckling slightly. “Do you- do you remember an incident ten years ago in Chinatown? You broke up a wrestling ring.”

Tony half-turned to him. “I do,” he said after a beat. “Someone called in a tip to one of my mother’s legacy organizations. Some men were beating up on a fourteen year old and gambling on it.”

His mom had called her organization the “Troubled Tonies”. She used to tease him constantly, saying at least there were some boys out there who would let her help them. As a young man, Tony had constantly read it wrong, bristling at the very idea he was a charity case. Decades later, and dealing with his own troubled loved ones, he realized now she just wanted to love him, and have him not resent her for it. The organization was one way she could do it without catching his ire. Maria Stark had loved children.

Tony itched his jaw. “Now that you remind me, I never found the kid I was looking for,” he said, remembering more the longer he thought about it. The tip had implied that the kid himself had needed an intervention, and Tony Stark was the kid’s hero. It had been a devastating blow at the time when he never found the kid. He’d spent many nights awake, wondering how he had slipped past Tony. But the tipster had never called back.

In contrast to Tony’s somber mood, Spider-Man laughed roughly, little warmth in it. Then, as if reacting to the look on Tony’s face, he lifted his mangled hand and pointed at himself.

“...You’re bullshitting me.”

“They called me the Spider,” he confided, a hint of cockiness breaking through.

Tony’s mind was blown. “Wow. You had your powers even then?”

Spider-Man’s posture lost all of the sudden confidence. “Yup. Used them for profit.”

“That’s-“ Exactly what a kid would do, he thought. Prank their friends, show off to their crushes, use it to get money quick. So why was Spider-Man so miserable about it? He was curling around himself again, arms looped around his abdomen.

“But _you_ , even then…” The kid’s voice was very quiet, his shoulders up to his ears. “You said I could be someone better. I _believed_ you. I believed you for so long, and now…”

“Now what?” Tony said quickly when Spider-Man didn’t continue. “What is it?”

Spider-Man was hunched over. He seemed impossibly smaller. A bad feeling churned deeply in Tony’s gut, flavored with a hint of nausea.

Without thinking, Tony reached out. “Spidey-” The muscles in Spider-Man’s shoulders bunched tightly, as if preparing for a blow. Tony very carefully pulled away, dropping his hand back in his lap. “You’ve had a bad time of it recently. No one is going to hurt you anymore.”

Spider-Man laughed dully. He stood suddenly, hands fisted at his sides. “If this is what superheroing is about, swinging from one disaster to another, constantly questioned and beaten down and ignored, even by my own friends-”

Tony scrambled up with him. “It’s not. Kid, I _promise_ it’s not-”

“If this is what it means, I don’t want it.” Softer, he mumbled, “I’m tired.”

Tony staggered back a step, feeling as if he’d been punched in the chest. Spidey eyed him for a moment. Then, after a beat, Spider-Man lifted one fist. In it was his phone. He clenched his fingers once, and the phone snapped, breaking off into three pieces. Spider-Man opened his hand, letting the pieces fall on the landing pad.

“I’m done,” the kid said. He wouldn’t meet Tony’s gaze any more. “Spider-Man doesn’t exist anymore. Let everyone else know… they got what they wanted.”

With that, Spider-Man jumped off the landing pad, swinging out of sight in the mess of the New York skyline.

“No one wanted that, kid.” No one wanted that at all.

 

-

 

So… this was how the story ended.

The resident nerds of the superhero community successfully created large batches of the cure for the cure. Thus, thousands of rage-filled citizens were treated and brought back to normal. The Green Goblin, for all of his efforts, was now locked up in the Raft. The dangerous fiend (or friend?) that was their neighborly arachnid hadn’t been seen in hours. Harry had been transferred over to a secure hospital, and all was right in the world.

Hunky dory, glitter, and fucking rainbows. Blah, blah, _blah_.

Man. What an awful fucking day. If there was any fairness in the world, somebody would backspace to Chapter 9 so Wade could slap his past self silly, then cram the stupid fucker in bed with Peter—where they wanted to be in the first place—before chucking his phone out the window.

Screw the Avengers, really. Wade wanted _Peter_.

But Peter didn’t want Wade. He’d made that perfectly clear, and, even if he was regretting it, he sure wasn’t hurrying to call or text Wade back. A better man would have taken that as the hint it was and backed off.

Wade wasn’t a better man. Hell, he was barely a _good_ man. So he went ahead and did the thing that Peter had never, ever given him permission to do during their entire arrangement and later relationship.

He went to Peter’s home.

Even as Wade crawled up Peter’s fire escape, he knew his grumpy love probably wasn’t there. He was probably running around the city, looking in vain for Harry—because Peter was nothing but loyal, and Wade had known that for ages. Had held that loyalty in his own hands for a brief period of time, even. Like most beautiful things in the world, he’d been woefully unequipped to keep it.

Frowning, Wade popped open Peter’s window—too easy, he thought worriedly—and slid into the man’s space, blinking in the darkness at the new surroundings.

He’d never gotten an official invite. Now he never would. He’d expected that. But what he didn’t expect was the possibility Peter had had another _man_ in his apartment.

Tensing, Wade came to a deadstop just inside of the window, just staring. Peter only had two pairs of shoes, and there was a boot, half hidden in shadows and half tucked under the couch. Thoughtless, graceless, unorganized—as if tossed there by someone who was very familiar with the place already.

The boyfriend swiping _fuck_.

Stunned, Wade walked over to it. Then he chuckled roughly, sitting on the couch. It dipped under him so deeply, Wade’s ass nearly touched his heels. He rubbed a hand over his face, gripping at his head briefly like that might temporarily relieve his emotional pain.

No, Wade didn’t blame Peter for moving on immediately. Peter was a catch, a stunning, beautiful, charming boy, both inside and out. The kind of person who should never be alone. The kind of person who would always be surrounded by love. And Wade so wanted to be the person who gave it to him too. But he fell short in that, like in most things.

Sighing, Wade pulled the boot out, morbidly curious at the man behind it—after all, shoe size=dick size, right? Wade wanted to know how he measured up.

The low light of the apartment meant it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The boot was red, soft-soled, and caked with dirt and blood. The patterning was instantly recognizable. So was the soft human noise from the next room. Peter’s guest was _here_. He shot up to his feet in alarm, clutching the boot to his chest.

He only had to spin once around the shoebox apartment before Peter’s bedroom was made obvious to him, before his guest was made visible through a small crack between molding and door.

The bedroom door wasn’t fully closed. Wade silently opened it, barely daring to breathe.

Spider-Man was lying face down on Peter’s bed, breathing unsteadily. His suit was a wreck, mismatched patches of web and gauze wrapped around his limbs and body. His feet were bare and his mask was off, abandoned on the floor at the head of the bed, like he’d tried to put it on the overturned box that made up his bedside table but missed. A chaotic mess of dark hair was pressed against Peter’s equally dark pillowcase.

Wade dropped the boot. It landed on the floor, almost silent against the worn rug. He’d always known Peter was protective of Harry. He’d had no idea he was so protective of Spider-Man too.

And Spider-Man was not sleeping well. Wade ached. Wrestling with himself for a minute, Wade pulled off his katanas and dropped his utility belt. He pulled off every bit of visible weaponry, trying to make himself less of a threat to the wounded hero. Then, on silent feet, he closed the space between the two of them.

Spider-Man was… smaller than expected. But Wade supposed that was the hero worship talking, wasn’t it? His everything made him seem so much taller, so much wider. Like an unstoppable wall fueled by stubborn determination and friendly spite. Like this, he looked so… human. Breakable.

God, Spider-Man didn’t even seem like he was _breathing_. Concerned, Wade reached out, his hand hovering over the iconic spider stretched across Spider-Man’s shoulder blades.

Then loose muscles suddenly corded. Spider-Man sprang straight up into the air, avoiding his touch.

Wade barked out half a laugh, startled. His eyes followed the path that his favorite spider hero had taken, up and up and up and-

And he was never going to laugh again.

Because staring down at him in terror, bearing a head of messy hair, wearing a worn, tear-streaked face was _Peter_.

Wade lived and died in the seconds it took for Peter to lose his strength on the ceiling, falling back on the mattress. He sprang up almost immediately, admirably, and Wade found himself hitting the wall a moment later, a forearm pressing effortless _ridiculous_ strength under his chin. The same arm was dripping with thick, almost black blood.

Wade curled his fingers around Peter’s wrist automatically but didn’t press back on the hold that threatened to suffocate him, and in more ways than one. He wanted to suffocate. He wanted to die, wanted that flatline on that heart monitor.

A moment later, Peter dropped to his knees in front of him, unable to do even that. “I told you. I told you and you didn’t. _Wade-_ ”

Peter’s broken voice became the soundtrack to the scene of Wade’s whole world ending.


	14. Chapter 14

“One month later, New York is still reeling from the attack that turned friend against friend and family against family,” said the male newscaster with a grim frown. “But there are still questions left unanswered. Who was the Green Goblin? What was the chemical weapon used against so many innocent civilians? And where on Earth is Spider-Man?”

At the last question, Peter’s hand twitched over the remote. He turned off the television. He let his hand curl limply over it as his head bent back. He stared blankly up at the popcorn texture of his aunt and uncle’s ceiling. 

Boy, could he have made some journalist’s day. So many burning questions. And here was Peter, reluctant owner to the answers for all of them.

The Green Goblin was Norman Osborn. SHIELD had decided not to divulge that information to avoid upending Oscorp, as they themselves had contracts with the company. As far as anyone else was concerned, Norman Osborn had released his iron grip on his company, retreating into a quiet retirement.

And that chemical? Only the modern world’s hottest bit of snake oil, Vitanova. Oh, sure. There was plenty of evidence pointing to the fact that, with some more refinement and research, it could really be that cancer cure Oscorp insisted it was. But if the side effect was bouts of rage followed by death, then Peter had to take a hard pass on that one. Even Gwen’s cure for the cure wasn’t foolproof. Plenty of people treated with it died anyway.

Not that anyone knew they’d been unwilling early test subjects for it. No, SHIELD hid that too. The official story was that the Green Goblin had concocted his own blend of chemicals for that attack, and thus Mean Vaccine stuck in the consciousness of Peter’s fellow New Yorkers, more than just a snarky quip from an equally snarky superhero.

And where was Spider-Man? Well, Spider-Man was gone. Finished. Dropped and left behind like so many pieces of his burner phone on top of the old Avengers tower. Not that anyone cared, but _Peter_ was hiding in Queens.

Yeah. Big brave spider boy, quivering in silence in his childhood home. If everyone could forget about him, that would be great.

But that wasn’t coming anytime soon. Spider-Man was a hot news topic every goddamn day, and the alerts on his personal phone never let him forget it. The coverage ranged anywhere from sightings to speculation to new quotes from other superheroes to sling about—and god, Peter wished Steve would stop talking to the press. _Please._

Peter sighed, falling slowly to his side on the couch. He pulled his knees to his chest. It was kind of funny, in a weird way. Now that he’d hung up his suit for good, his PR had never been better.

It was probably because of the story the Avengers had gone with during their press conference. It would have been easier for them to dismiss their chase of their fellow hero as Spider-Man becoming an early victim of Vitanova. No. Instead, they went with something a little closer to the truth: there was a fake Spider-Man on the loose.

That had gotten everyone not clued into the Spidey Clone Army up in a tizzy. It had derailed the entire press conference, causing the gathered press to erupt in an outcry. It had only settled when Steve took the microphone away from Tony and announced firmly that Spider-Man was fine, and that he had been instrumental in catching his copy.

Steve Rogers had stared deep into the camera, like he could see Peter. Then he’d said, with horrible sincerity, “Spider-Man continues to be a valued member of the superhero community.”

Still licking his wounds in his apartment, Peter had nearly thrown his phone against the wall. Between that and Wade’s brief, uninvited visit, that seemed like a sign. Peter had given up and gone home.

It was the sort of final, resolute decision he’d avoided making for years, too absorbed in keeping his job. It had seemed like the time to make it because, as acting president, Harry had approved them both for medical leave. While packing, Peter had squinted at the letter Harry’d sent over that confirmed Peter’s illness from a doctor Peter never met nor ever would, and called Harry right back.

Gwen had picked up the phone instead. “He doesn’t want to hear it,” she said automatically.

On the other end, Peter could barely hear Harry complain. “-would’ve said it nicer,” he had said petulantly.

“I can’t accept it,” Peter’d said. He had been in the middle of creeping to his bathroom slowly, using the wall as a crutch. “I’m fine. I’ll be in the office Monday morning.” He only needed the week. He had the sick time built up.

Shuffling noises came across the small speaker. Then Harry’s voice, loud and clear, came through. “If I thought even for a second that you’d go to my doctor, I’d let you turn me down.” The jocularity faded into something else, something quieter, sadder. “I saw the security tapes, Pete. The videos. The news coverage.”

Any other day, Peter would have wondered if his spinning vision was over his injuries or if it was over the realization that someone knew his deepest, darkest secret. But ever since he’d dropped to his knees in front of a silent, watching Deadpool, he found himself numb to that old fear, hardened against it. Who cared. Who freaking _cared_.

Peter had decided to lose Spider-Man. Ultimatum or not, he hadn't counted on losing _Wade_.

Harry’d cleared his throat. “If I see you at work before your six week vacation is up, I’ll fire you.”

Faintly, Peter heard Gwen mutter, “Now who’s being mean?”

“Take a break, Pete,” Harry’d said, some humor trickling through his voice. “I’ll see ya when we both look a little less like Thor’s punching bags.”

By that time, Peter had made his way to the sink. He’d stood there for a while, spying on his familiar face, grayed out and strained. What a pair they were.

So, yeah, Peter had gone home.

He’d made up a lie about a tussle with a mugger and bore the brunt of his aunt’s first aid attempts and his uncle’s mother henning. He’d healed within a few days from most of his sores and injuries.

The only two that took time were the ones he’d gotten when he’d tangled with Wade on that rooftop. For days, he’d had a persistent muscle weakness in his arm where he had been stabbed, and he avoided looking at it as much as possible. At one point, Peter had been convinced it would never, ever heal… that is, until that one day where he’d accidentally ripped off the scab while pulling on a sweater. He’d scrambled to tend to it, to keep it from bleeding all over the place, but all the scab had revealed was tender, pink skin. In the end, it wouldn’t even scar. Peter felt robbed.

He’d had to go to the doctor and get his hand rebroken, as it had healed wrong, but that injury didn’t quite have the same hold on his psyche.

That same psyche, so tangled up in Wade, lived to torture him. It played the night he’d been caught over and over in his head, not letting him forget a single bit of it. He’d been scared and guilty and sick and in so much pain. He felt like he was thirteen again, dumb and sheltered and self-centered.

But after confronting Wade, he’d gritted his teeth, pushing himself up from the floor. To fight again, if he needed to. To run again, if it was necessary. To end this, if it was prudent.

But all of that determination had meant nothing in the end, not when it came to the demands of his much abused body.

Wade had caught him before he hit the floor once more, his big hands warm and anchoring on Peter’s quaking shoulders. He was like fire, both a source of relief and a source of wounding, and Peter had been so completely overwhelmed-

But when Peter said _help me_ , Wade did.

When he said _lift me_ , he did.

When he said _fill the tub with hot water_ , he did.

He’d watched silently as Peter squirmed and hissed under the heat, blood and dirt and sweat swirling off of him in the tub, his spandex suit clinging tighter under the water. He’d left only to grab a knife.

Peter had hardly registered it. That is, until the knife came closer to him. His hand had shot out, gripping Wade’s wrist with almost enough force to break it, 100% of his focus on the sharp edge.

“You’re scared of me,” Wade had said then. It was the first thing he’d said since Peter attached himself to the ceiling.

Peter’d had reason to be afraid. He’d already been stabbed once tonight. But at the same time, he’d needed help, help that Wade was willing to give him. His suit had caked into his skin, healing into his wounds and turning black. Peter was a massive infection waiting to happen. So he’d loosened his grip, watching Wade take the knife to his suit, cutting it open.

He looked worse than he’d expected. The bruising was spectacularly horrible, already blooming under his skin in huge swaths of unhappy purple, and, for the life of him, Peter couldn’t untense, couldn’t unclench, couldn’t relax in a way that would make him hurt just a little less.

Wade had sucked in a breath then, the sound almost a sob. Then he’d ripped his mask off.

It both helped and didn’t help. The lizard part of Peter’s brain now associated narrowing white eye holes and red leather with a falsely sweet voice floating over rooftops, a fake bomb designed to take advantage of Peter’s fears, and a well-aimed sword pinning Peter to a wall. But when the mask was off, Deadpool was just Wade—wide-eyed, tortured and scared. Both better and worse.

Wade leaned over, pressing a brief kiss to Peter’s temple, still wordless and silent. Then he pushed away from the tub, stumbling back out of the bathroom.

Before Peter could consider the very real possibility that Wade had left him to drown in the tub, Wade came back, armed with Peter’s biggest towel. Peter turned his head as Wade lifted his body from the bloody dirty water. He looked anywhere but at the man pulling the rest of his suit off Peter’s body.

The next bath was warm instead of burning hot. Wade left again, pushing a soapy cloth at Peter. He was grateful for the isolation, as brief as it was. The running water meant that his hiccuping tears were almost swallowed up. Almost.

While Wade was out, he’d changed the sheets and swapped Peter’s blankets. He’d come back in the bathroom after he was done and helped Peter finish his bath with a distant, clinical sponge bath. Wrapping him up in towels, Wade had finally lifted him out of the tub again, depositing him in the freshly changed bed. Exhausted, Peter was already half asleep at this point.

He’d woken up again at the sound of a window opening, sitting up. Through his open bedroom door, he could see Wade slinging a leg over the window sill. 

“If you tell anyone-” Peter had blurted out.

Wade’s attention had snapped to him. His eyes were hidden by the half fold of his mask, his chin bare. Half Wade, half Deadpool. He was armed again, and his mouth was set in a flat, unhappy line.

“I’ll take your secret to the grave,” he’d promised. Then he left, leaving Peter to wonder how good that promise was from a man who could never die.

And now he was here, one month later, in Queens. He itched under the cast on his hand before turning the television back on. After a beat, Peter lifted his head. Goddamnit. _Again?_

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” Captain America said sternly. He was leveling a frown at the reporter in front of him. “Spider-Man _continues_ to be an asset and a valued member of the superhero community. Although he has taken a leave of absence, we will welcome him back with open arms when he returns.”

“Fuck you,” Peter hissed under his breath, bristling and sitting upright. _When_ , he’d said. When, like he believed it was temporary.

Was it temporary? Steve probably understood him better than Peter would like. The need to help, to be present, to serve ached like a splinter to the heart. Itchy and impossible to ignore.

Peter should probably share that the splinter ceased to be a problem when your whole heart had been punched out, but he was worried he would seem too dramatic. It was true, though. A whole huge chunk of him was just… numb.

A key fumbled at the front door. Then a woman’s voice swore softly, the sound of multiple bags crinkling almost obscuring the curse. “Peter? Can you help?”

“Coming.” Peter shoved himself out of the couch and went to help Aunt May.

 

-

 

By the time Tony rolled up to the fight in Bowery, the Four were being batted around New York like a bunch of toys by an army of Doombots.

Well, maybe not an army. More than a hopeful boy band’s worth. Times two. Or one and a half soccer teams? Or his board of directors during the Obi era before Tony orchestrated the early retirement of some not very nice people.

Tony blasted the closest Doombot until it was a melted piece of modern art. A second Doombot lumbered at him before stopping and twisting in a way that wasn’t explainable by physics. The machine fell, missing its core heart, revealing a scowling Jessica Jones in a long, trailing scarf.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, as unfriendly as ever.

“Could say the same to-”

An arrow lodged itself in the arm socket of a Doombot and exploded. Then Captain America barreled in, launching his shoulder into the Doombot pinning Mr. Fantastic.

Tony gapped at his teammates. Then, annoyed, he snapped, “Did I miss the evite?”

“Less talking, more fighting,” growled the Devil behind him. How someone could emerge out of the shadows in full daylight while wearing red was beyond Tony. But, for once, he didn’t question it.

Under the combined force of three Avengers, two Defenders, and the Four, the Doombots went down fast. Reed immediately crouched next to one, poking it interestedly. The rest of them huddled up as the sound of sirens grew louder.

“Well. That was anticlimactic,” the Thing commented, rubbing the back of his rocky neck. “Thanks for the assist, I guess.”

“Full offense,” Jessica sassed, turning on Tony and his team, “but what the fuck are you guys doing here?”

“The same thing I imagine you are,” Johnny snapped, arms crossed tight over his chest. Reed wandered over at the sound of in-fighting, standing behind his wife. “Showing up uninvited to a fight that isn’t yours.”

Jessica bristled. Next to her, Murdock smirked. “Next time you want to be squashed, be my guest. I’ll pull up a seat and get some popcorn.”

“I thought we were going to try and get along,” Clint complained.

“Yeah, well, our last team up with you went south in a bad way,” Jessica countered, a pinched look on her face.

“And yet, here you are,” Susan responded coolly, looking very much like her brother in that moment.

Steve waved a sharp hand. “Enough,” he said, sounding irritated. He looked at each one of them individually. Then he sighed. “Too long, we’ve ignored each other and our crises. We’ve all been bad neighbors.” He gave that a moment to sit with everyone. Then, quieter, he said, “I, for one, would like it if we all were better neighbors. And the fact that all of you are here today says that maybe I’m not the only one. What do you say?”

Tony flattened his mouth at the end of that moving pitch. He was dead. He was dying. He was going to bust a gut if someone didn’t say something.

Jessica was the weak link. “Mr. Rogers wants us to be a good neighbor?” Jessica asked in a strangled voice. “What’s next? A cardigan and a tv show?”

“You can call me Steve,” Steve said with a frown, missing the point.

Reed purpled faintly and stared down at his hands. Clint snorted out a laugh, but when Tony shot him a look, his expression was stoic. Murdock was grinning widely now, and Sue, normally the level-headed one of the bunch, had to look away, visibly biting her cheek. Ben was smirking.

“I don’t get it,” Johnny said, and, weirdly, that only seemed to add fuel to the fire.

Tony pushed forward at the increased mirth. “Okay, okay. Don’t laugh at him. He’s ninety. Cut him some slack.” He clapped a gauntlet on his fearless leader’s shoulder. “The fact of the matter, he’s right. Our track record with you guys hasn’t been awesome. For years, we haven’t been good neighbors, okay friends, or even lukewarm allies you could count on. And that recent thing with Spider-Man, it just-” Tony hesitated. “It just _highlighted_ all of that. But we’re trying to fix it. Fix this.”

It was what Spider-Man would have wanted, he didn’t say. And honoring that was probably the real reason all of them were there today, jumping headfirst into a fight they would have normally watched from a distance.

No one said anything for several long moments. Tony vibrated in place. Then he stood up straight, pulling on his best chatting-with-investors face. “So Doom. Walk me through it.”

His heart was pounding. If the Four pushed back, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. There was a Spider-Man shaped gap in this whole interaction that made him extremely uneasy, and he wasn’t the only one who felt it. The Four were exchanging looks, and Jessica was leaning into Murdock with a frown. Steve was waiting, like him, but Clint’s full attention was on Tony instead, reminding him that Clint’s first loyalty was to SHIELD.

Finally, Sue blew out a long breath. “It’s this whole long… story.”

As if that was the cue he was waiting for, Reed launched into a long story of his agelong rivalry with the aptly named genius megalomaniac, Dr. Doom.

The huddle shifted then, with Steve pushing forward to ask tactical questions about Dr. Doom’s resources. Clint asked a few about his home base, seemingly interested in this, which meant SHIELD probably had some sort of stake in the conflict. Reed seemed happy to discuss it all, like it was a weight off his chest. It was the kind of wide-spread tension that had huge consequences, more than just their neck of the woods.

And Tony, he just shuffled closer to the Defenders, their ragtag street-level justice team. Just like Spidey.

“Hey,” he said to them in an undertone, “Any sign of-“

Murdock frowned. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Tony’s heart fell. Then, thinking quickly, he gestured between all of them. “It doesn’t change anything, we’re still going to-“

“I know. I just wish…” Murdock trailed off. Then he shook his head, regret flattening his mouth.

Tony quickly changed the subject. “So, Reed has Doom. What about you? What do you have? Ninjas? Zombies? Criminal empires? Talk to me, Councilor.”

Jessica had a half smile. “Actually, ninja zombie criminal empires pretty much sums it up.” Murdock snorted.

“Bullshit,” Tony said, intrigued. “Tell me more…”

 

-

 

The kitchen used to be Ellie’s favorite place. It was a source of free food she could get at anytime without having to dig through her passed out father’s shitty wallet for whatever leftover money he wasn’t spending on strippers. She didn’t have to steal. She didn’t have to bargain. She didn’t have to beg. In fact, the older mutants in charge of food at the school took requests, remembered allergies, and did their best to buy everyone’s favorites. Ellie was allowed to eat at any time she wanted, whatever she wanted, and it was the first of many signs that life was going to be different under Professor Xavier’s watchful eye.

The kitchen was also where she’d met Yukio. She’d been new to the mansion and angry about it. She’d just blown up this jerk’s car and, instead of going to juvie, she’d been scooped up by a gang of freaks. Just as she’d veered towards getting super emotional about it, this bubbly and cute girl started talking to her like they were already great friends. Ellie had responded to that as positively as a cat responds to a sudden water bath—horribly and with sharp pointy bits extended.

No. She hadn’t made the best impression on her future girlfriend at all. But there they were anyway, still dating and still finding things to like about each other. Because of that, the kitchen was almost a universal good, in her book.

But now Wade Wilson was there, infecting the place with his presence, singing like a drunk canary with a smoking problem.

“ _Goodbye, my almost lover. Goodbye, my hopeless dream_. _I'm trying not to think about you. Can't you just let me be_?” The fucker was dramatically draped over the countertops, which couldn’t be sanitary. Ellie doubted he cared, what with the “jizz in the hand soap” incident.

Wade was moping, had been for weeks. She didn’t even live here, and she was sick of it. She couldn’t imagine how everyone else was coping.

Walking by him, she swiped his legs off the counter. “What, did someone else die?” she fired at him snidely.

Wade ignored her, lifting his legs back up. His oversized sandals drooped, catching on his pink Hello Kitty sweatpants. He folded his hands back over his belly, warped skin standing out bluntly against the bright yellow star of his Steven Universe sweater. His gaze, directed upward, was dull, and he smelled rank. Like dead creatures fermenting in a pool of expired milk.

Whatever his issues were, he wasn’t as fun to poke when he was like this. It felt more like kicking a guy when they were down. Or punching a baby. She felt like an ass. She didn’t like feeling like an ass.

Arms circled around Ellie from behind. “Aw,” Yukio said.

Ellie swatted her hip. “Don’t encourage him,” she said flatly. She shoved Wade’s knee. “Hey you. Why do you keep singing melodramatic breakup songs?” He’d been at it for days, and he hadn’t told anyone why. It was driving Ellie nuts.

Wade sighed heavily, turning his face away. “Only bands from the late nineties and early 2000s truly understand the heartache of lost love.” His voice was full of melancholy. Then- “ _Wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before. And I wonder if I ever cross your mind. For me, it happens all the time._ ”

Sensing the rise of Ellie’s bloodlust at the mention of early morning clinginess, Yukio squeezed her. “Let him express himself, Ellie,” she whispered. “It’s good for him.”

“The only thing good for him is a permanent gag.”

The mumbled lyrics turned into a rough gurgle of a laugh. “Kinky.” Wade cringed. “Ugh. Not even interesting. I want to die,” Wade whispered. He rolled off the counters, landing on the floor on his face. After a beat, he turned his head to the left. “Yukiooo.”

Yukio let go of Ellie, crouching next to Ellie’s least favorite mutant. “Yes, Wade?”

“Hi Yukio,” Wade said, despondent but polite. He curled a loose hand around the tip of her shoe. “Harry Osborn wasn’t Spider-Man.”

“No shit,” Ellie muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Talk to me, Wade,” Yukio said, ignoring her.

Wade swallowed hard enough that his throat clicked. “It was the worst. Hindsight is a bitch. I mean, the hip to waist ratio alone shoulda clued me in, but I paid attention to the wrong things and tried to be good, and _it sucked_. I tell you, Yukio, being a hero is a big fucking bummer.”

Yukio frowned, really listening to him. “And he wasn’t Harry Osborn-“

“And he wasn’t Harry Osborn, you’re absolutely fucking right.” Wade looked visibly distressed. He pushed himself up on one elbow. For the first time in days, their resident immortal showed signs of life—even if it was a sad, pathetic one. “Do you know who he was instead?”

“Dr. Phil?” Ellie quipped.

That, of all the poking and prodding and bullying, was the thing that finally got him to really look at her, glare at her, and treat her like his unwanted kid sister. Like he normally did.

“No, Negasonic Teenage _Stupid Head_. He was…” The fire in Wade’s eyes sputtered out, smothered by his misery. “My sweetheart. My main squeeze. My bit of sugar and spice.” He dropped back to the floor, rolling onto his back. “The love of my life.”

Ah. Shit. Ellie and Yukio swapped glances. Ellie was regretting bringing up the dead girlfriend.

Yukio grimaced. “Um…”

Wade continued on. “And I stabbed him. _Stabbed_ him, my boy. My grumpy love. I got him right in the arm. Had a whole joke lined up and ready to go for it, _but it wasn’t Osborn_. And now he hates me. Or I think he hates me.” Wade whipped his head around, eyes flying to Yukio. “I ran away before he could tell me. Great plan or greatest plan, you think?”

A smidge of empathy was clawing up Ellie’s chest like a hungry tapeworm.

Sitting up, Wade curled into himself. “Why am I here?” he muttered to his knees. “I should’ve stayed in his face until he forgave me.” He didn’t move, though.

“He needed to process,” Yukio said helpfully, patting Wade’s thick shoulder.

Wade nodded. “Draw boundaries. Cut out the toxic parts of his life.”

“Oh,” Ellie said, pressing a finger to her chin. “Like you!”

That made Wade grin. “Bingo!” He cocked a finger gun at her. Ellie really hated this guy sometimes.

“Wade, it doesn’t sound like you had a proper talk with your boyfriend,” Yukio commented, propping her chin up on her hand with a tiny frown. “I think you need to.”

Wade stared at Yukio with a lost expression. “Yeah?”

“You pretty much ghosted him, Wade,” Ellie said flatly. When Wade looked up at her, she examined her nails. “If it’s really over, he needs to know for sure. And so do you.” Ellie smirked. “You should grovel.”

“…I do look great on my knees,” Wade sniffled. Debatable.

Yukio clapped her knees, standing. Sternly, she said, “And if he doesn’t forgive you-“

“I’ll accept it,” Wade said immediately and without humor. “I’ll do whatever he wants. Drop the Avengers. Leave town. Take up beefarming in the Canadian wilderness. It doesn’t matter.” Quieter, he said, “Whatever he wants so he can feel safe.”

Ellie and Yukio exchanged another look. Wade had it. _Bad._ She hadn’t seen him so hung up on someone since Vanessa. That tapeworm was getting bigger.

But before she could say anything genuine or, god forbid, kind, someone else entered the room, booming voice first. “Is that who I think it is?” Colossus rounded the counters, glaring. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Wade, I told you to leave the mansion eleven days ago. Where have you been sleeping?”

“Under your bed.”

“Under my-” Colossus reeled back. Ellie cocked her head, fascinated. She didn’t know metal could blush.

“Nevermind that,” Wade spat. He rocked on his back, shooting out his legs and launching to his feet in an obnoxiously athletic move for a guy who’d been lying around for days. “Big guy, I have a bone to pick with you. Oh wait, you did that last night- _urk_.”

Colossus had yanked on Wade’s hood, jerking it over his bare head. “ _Wade!_ ” For a second, it almost looked like Colossus might choke him with it.

But Wade yanked himself back, settling his hoodie back in place. “Relax, I put on headphones and listened to some Celine.” At the big guy’s continued sputtering, Wade threw out his arms, annoyed. “Come on, I was in the military! If I had a dollar for every time I heard another man jerking it-”

“ _Why are you the way you are?_ ” Colossus hissed, mortified. He swatted at Wade, trying to catch him.

Wade rolled on his back over the island, landing slickly on his feet. “No! Don’t lecture me! You’re the one in trouble here!” Colossus froze. Wade jabbed his finger at him triumphantly. “Ha! Oh yeah, didn’t think of that one, did ya?”

“Wade...” Shyly, Colossus glanced at Ellie and Yukio. Ellie snapped a piece of gum at him, unimpressed. He straightened up, chest pushing out. “Wade, what a man does in the privacy of his bedroom-”

Wade cringed, his hands flying up protectively. “Not that, god! Why do you always have dicks on the brain?” Topic shifting rapidly, his hand shot out, pointing beyond the kitchen window. “No, honry boy. I’m talking about a month ago. Why didn't you head down to Manhattan like all the other good boys and girls?”

“Um,” Colossus stalled a little, trying to think of an answer. Then, lighting up, he pointed at Wade. “We already had an X-Man down there. You.” He chuckled awkwardly, shaking his head. “Besides, we did not want to get in middle of another Civil War situation. Very dramatic. Not good for public image.

“Wouldn’t have helped either,” Ellie drawled, already bored. “Spider-Man whooped the team’s ass before.”

Colossus scowled at her. “That was before. And certainly not our main team! Besides, we have had _much_ training since then-”

“Hold the fucking phone, you shiny dildo,” Wade said in a hushed, awed voice. He sauntered over to Ellie, leaned over until they were at eye level, and whispered, “Um, spill, girlfriend.”

“It was long time ago-” Colossus protested.

“Before my time,” Ellie admitted. She lifted a shoulder. “But it was pretty lit.”

“It was teachable moment-” Colossus said fiercely.

“It was a clusterfuck,” Ellie translated, enjoying this now. Colossus was cute when he was dismayed. Next to her, Yukio was grinning. “They filmed it and everything. If you had stuck around longer in your training, you would have seen it too.”

“Really?”

“Yup!” Yukio chirped. “The lesson’s called _How Not to Approach a Mutant with Sensory Precognition_.”

Wade clapped his cheeks, letting out a school girl squeak. “I want to seeeee.”

Colossus clapped a hand on Wade’s shoulder, pulling him away from Ellie and Yukio. “No, that’s for X-Men only.” He pushed Wade towards the entryway of the kitchen, shooing him. 

“How come I’m an X-Person only when it’s convenient to you?” Wade barked, which was fair.

“Go home, Wade,” Colossus said mercilessly. The two mutants faced off. “You have overstayed your welcome.” He crossed his massive arms over his massive chest. “I am serious this time.”

Wade squinted up at him. “That is your serious face,” he admitted grudgingly. He flipped his non-existent hair over his shoulder. “Ugh. Hater. Bye, Yukio.”

“Bye, Wade!” Yukio called out, waving. “I hope you grovel right and get your Spider-Person back!”

“You’re a beautiful human being, Yukio,” Wade said with feeling. Then, with a determined scowl, he pointed at Colossus, walking backwards. “And, Colossus, whether you’re fisting your mister or dancing with the one-eyed sailor or doing the five knuckle shuffle, just know that I support you. Much love.” Wade paused mid-step. Then, quietly, he said, “Self-love-”

“We get it,” Colossus bellowed. “Leave now!” Wade skedaddled before Colossus could make good on the violence promised by his voice. 

Short-sighted, Ellie thought, because now Colossus had to deal with two very amused girls all by himself.

“Girls,” Colossus started tentatively. “What he said-“

“You’re a grownass man. Don’t justify your need to yank it to us.” Ellie made a face. Ugh. Gross.

Yukio gazed up at him solemnly. “You need a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or a friend with benefits.”

“Or all three,” Ellie said with a smirk. Colossus was a big man. Lots to love.

“ _Girls!_ ”

Pink-toned silver was such a pretty color.

 

-

 

A hand smoothed through Peter’s hair. “Have to say, this is a very sad vacation for a very hardworking man.”

Peter disagreed. This was a great vacation! No assignments and no expectations. And the food was great. He had a full plate of eggs and toast in front of him, with the promise of seconds on the way. When he wasn’t on vacation, he had free office donuts, but they barely made a dent in the void that was his belly. Here, he was starting to remember what it was like being full.

But Peter knew that wasn’t what May was talking about.

“It’s fine,” he said, smiling at her. They were sharing a corner of the kitchen table, both seated close to one another. Two peas in a pod, Ben always said. Speaking of which, Ben was across from them, absorbed in his newspaper.

May frowned. “What about Maui? Or Hawaii? You could use a tan.”

“I don’t have the money,” Peter muttered, half-apologetic.

May tugged a strand of his hair before finally leaving his head alone. “Okay, what about a road trip?” She shrugged. “We could go down to Florida. See Disneyworld, like when you were a kid.”

“You hate amusement parks,” Peter reminded her.

“And he’s almost thirty,” Ben said distractedly.

May let out an exaggerated hiss, swatting Ben. “You can never be too old for the House of Mouse.” A phone rang from deeper inside the house. May immediately stood. “Oh! That must be Martha.”

Peter watched her leave, shoveling another forkful of eggs in his mouth.

Ben hummed thoughtfully. “You do need some sun.”

Peter glanced at him. “I’m taking walks,” he said quietly. It had taken him a while to start doing so, but… he was. His motivation was not his own health, though, but rather a growing sense of gratitude.

Yuri Watanabe had been an unexpected gift in the crapshoot that was the end of his superhero career, and he’d completely neglected to thank her. Worse, when he got rid of his burner phone, he’d lost her number. To make up for it, he’d been sending coffee and donuts to Yuri once a week since the day Gobby was caught—a different donut shop every day.

She’d literally saved his life. Donuts and coffee were a poor excuse for a thanks, but he worked with what he had. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be donning the mask any time soon.

“Still, though. Being outside is good for you. May’s got the right idea.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said, but not unkindly.

Ben grunted noncommittally. He flipped pages in the newspaper, flattening it out with a flick of his wrist. “What does Iron Man do on vacation?” he asked from behind his flimsy cover. “Or Captain America?”

Chasing the last bit of egg with his toast, Peter answered automatically. “How would I know?” Then the question seeped in. He sat up, alarm pinging in the back of his head. “ _Why_ would I know?”

“Surely Spider-Man could take a little direction from his peers.”

And this was surely the conversation that was only supposed to exist in his worst nightmares.

The newspaper stayed up. Peter stared at it blankly. Then, quietly, he let out a little huff of a laugh. This was so typical. He’d read Ben’s distance this whole break as lingering hurt feelings over years of estrangement. But no. There was a reason why May fawned over him and peppered him with a million questions about his mugging story, and there was a reason why Ben didn’t say anything.

He _knew_ Peter was lying, and he’d waited almost a month to confront him over it. How like Ben to sit on a grenade like this without launching it in anyone’s face.

“Joke’s on you. They’re both workaholics,” Peter said weakly. The paper lowered just enough for Peter to see Ben’s eyes rise to his own, hesitant but creased at the corners. Ben thought this was _funny_.

Peter let out a long, whistling breath. He grabbed the back of his chair and dragged it closer to his uncle. “How long have you known?” he demanded in a whisper. “Since when-”

“Since I watched my skinny, fourteen year old nerd of a nephew throw a man more than twice his age, weight, and size across an illegal wrestling ring.” Ben sniffed exaggeratedly, closing his paper and resting it next to his long-empty plate. “What did you think I thought that night, Pete? There was more than one reason why I pointed Tony Stark at you.” He poked a thick finger in Peter’s chest. “Besides, kid, you never changed your costume.”

Now that was rude. Peter tipped up his chin defensively. “I changed the color. Upgraded it by, like, a lot.” His spandex had Kevlar in it now. It was never going to be enough stop a bullet, but sometimes it stopped knives. Anyway, it was worlds away from the hoodie and sweatpants of Mark 1 Spidey.

Ben was laughing at him. “But the general idea? Spider-Man? Your wrestling name?” Ben snorted, then patted Peter’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Parkers are creative, yes. Artistically, though? Not so much.”

Peter thought about it a little bit longer. Then he deflated. Like in most things, Ben was right. It was ridiculous that Peter had successfully kept his name unattached to Spider-Man for almost ten years.

“Does May know?”

Ben shrugged. “Eh. I stress her out enough already. I didn’t want to add this to the pile.”

Peter shot him a crooked half-smile at that. Ben was always way more like Peter than Peter appreciated. Then his smile faded. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be Spider-Man anymore.”

“Hm.” Ben side-eyed him for a bit. “Sure.” He took a sip of his coffee, hands back on his reading material.

Peter listened a bit to the crinkling noises it produced, the shuffle of paper against paper. Then he reached out, folding the top down to force eye contact. “That’s kind of cold.” When Ben looked up at that, Peter shrugged. “It’s a major life decision. Maybe I want some feedback.”

“Maybe when you can say it with conviction, I’ll congratulate you on your retirement.”

“I messed up, Ben,” Peter said plainly, quietly. “You had to be watching the news.”

Ben put the paper down again, sighing. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.” He suddenly looked much, much older. He tried to hide it with a smile. “But I fail to see where you messed up. Walk me through it, kid.”

Peter smiled at the familiar phrasing. It reminded him of when he was in elementary school and middle school, so frustrated with his homework that he was about ready to bite his textbook. Ben would always ask Peter to walk him through it. It was never the concepts that threw him. No, it was the way the material was presented or the steps that the teachers demanded to see for credit.

But when Peter would explain it, he would relax, starting to see the hows or whys of the assignment and maybe even what his teacher was trying to achieve. After he had finished, Ben would always ruffle a hand in his hair. “ _See? You didn’t need me. You already had all you needed in your little noggin._ ”

Peter’s smile faded again. “I just… I didn’t…” He was stammering. “My friends and allies, I didn’t…”

Ben watched him patiently. “Did you do the right thing?

Peter made a face. All that wasted time, all that wasted effort. He’d been injured. _Harry_ ’d been injured. He’d lied—or, at least, worked to obscure a truth. His friends had fallen into a trap, and it was all his fault. Plus all those people who had been affected-

“Simple question, Peter. Don’t overthink it.”

But all Peter could think about was all those things that went wrong. But he’d lied to protect May, and he’d lied to protect Harry. Harry was the victim here… and Peter had been _right_ to leave him with Gwen. If he hadn’t, if he’d went with his gut and let the Avengers take him too early, Harry wouldn’t be Harry any more. Instead, he would be this twisted thing that was closer to the Green Goblin than his original self. 

“Yes,” he heard himself saying. “I did the right thing.”

Ben nodded. “Did you reduce harm?”

Peter made a face. There were a lot of things that had happened in the last couple of months that actually caused a lot of harm. But that was on the Green Goblin. And Peter, for all of his ineffectiveness that day or the months previous, had actually stopped Vitanova from affecting anyone else. He’d stopped Gobby from hurting Yuri or the other cops or even the Vitanova-poisoned citizens.

“Yes,” Peter said very, very quietly.

Ben reached out and gripped Peter’s wrist. “And did you do your absolute best with the hand you’d been dealt?”

“Of course.” Peter didn’t need to think about that. Anything less was unthinkable.

Ben sat back, releasing Peter. He was smiling in satisfaction. “Well then. I’m convinced.” He gestured at Peter. “You’re clearly a terrible person.” Then he let out a wheezing little laugh.

“It’s not that simple, Ben,” Peter growled. “I lied to the others a lot. They didn’t trust me when I needed them to trust me. I had clues laid out in front of me, and I could have figured things out. I could have! But I didn’t.” Peter ducked his head. “I made things _worse_. I didn’t help anyone.”

Peter realized he’d errored the second he dealt in absolutes.

Ben’s whole face lit up. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh ho. Not a single person, huh? None of those police officers. None of those citizens. The good guys themselves when they got locked in that building. You did _nothing_.”

What an absurd conversation. “I didn’t do _enough_ ,” Peter clarified. “I’m not a hero.” He was a selfish guy who manipulated people.

Ben sighed, finally sobering. “You know, Pete, I don’t know what you’re going through, but I think you need to cut Spider-Man some slack.” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling. “We live in a world where people who can act, and should act, inevitably don’t, then sit there and whine about it.” He swatted Peter’s arm with the back of his fingers. “But when _you_ find yourself in that position, you step up. You put in the time.”

“Ben-”

“Don’t,” Ben interrupted. His words got tighter and tighter. “I watched the news, Pete. Even pulled out your old laptop to watch it on the internet. And I did, kid, I did. Over and over and over again. May thought I was obsessed.” Ben blinked rapidly, staring at his hands. “You know what I saw? I watched a man stand tall and fight and defend and fall and bleed for innocents. Sure, not everything went perfectly, but don’t-“ Ben’s voice broke. “ _Don’t tell me that man’s not a hero._ ”

Ben looked up at him then, fear, pride, pain, and love shining in his eyes.

Peter shoved out of his seat and wrapped his arms around his uncle’s shoulders.

Ben held him for a very long time.


	15. Chapter 15

The sight outside of Harry’s office window was almost painfully bright. A warm day spelled the premature end to their winter season. Somewhere far, far below him, New Yorkers scattered to and fro, daringly indulging in shorts and sandals and jeans as much as they stuck to safety, wearing long coats to keep out cold.

Harry almost wanted a window that would open up so he could hear the traffic, the crowds, the wind as it sliced through the skyline. It was a useless thought. His hearing was no longer as sharp as it used to be. And even if Harry did have a window like that, all he’d hear was the construction crews working on his father’s destroyed office.

The board was pushing him to take it over already. Harry was stalling with a full-scale remodeling project, changing his mind on things like floors and light fixtures every two days. The designer would have hung him from the roof by now, but they were old friends from college, and Harry was paying him extra to be lenient.

Harry took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. Stalling, stalling, stalling. It was practically his super power.

“If Oscorp is as rotten as you think it is, then I want it excised. Immediately and with full prejudice.” After a beat, Harry pivoted away from his window, eyes dropping to his guest.

Jessica Jones watched him, her expression fixed in neutrality. Her leather jacket was as battered as always, and her body language was tense. Arms crossed over her chest, she didn’t move when Harry dropped a USB on the desk, pushing it to her. Her eyes landed on the device, then flicked up to him. She didn’t reach for it.

God, she made him nervous.

“This is what we were able to find so far,” Harry said quickly. “You’ll be able to find more. It’s your speciality.” When she just raised an eyebrow, he said, “ _And_ I’m also pulling in my best two people to dig for more. They’ll pass on what they find, and you’ll have full leave to chase down whatever leads you’d like.” Harry smiled faintly. “Kick our asses, please.”

After a moment, Jessica swiped the USB, standing with a small smirk. “I was going to do it anyways. Always a pleasure to be paid for the privilege.”

With that, she headed immediately for the door. This was not how he’d hoped the conversation would go. He’d forgotten that Jessica wasn’t one for chitchat or small talk.

“Did he not tell you anything?” Harry blurted out.

Jessica paused in front of the door. Then she turned back around, tipping her chin up slightly. He expected some crap or a demand for another concession. But in her dark eyes, all he could see was a hint of empathy.

She shoved both hands deep in her pockets. “Norman Osborn went straight to the Raft,” she said without preamble. “According to my source, choking people to death seemed like his weapon of choice, despite all of those fancy gadgets and chemical cocktails. It should be easy to figure out who else he’s killed that way.” Her expression hardened. “If there are any other people you know of who died under similar circumstance, you need to let me know immediately. No spin, no PR bullshit. Not this time. Just the truth, or I’ll bury you with him.”

Harry barely registered the threat, his mind spinning off elsewhere. He looked past Jessica to the windows next to his office door. Beyond them, Gwen sitting outside, reading something on her phone. There was a tiny frown of concentration on her face, and she had her lip tucked in between her teeth.

Harry found room to breathe. “My parents’ apartment was broken into when I was ten,” he said, voice rough. “They were home. I was not. Norman tussled with the intruders. There were cuts all over his face. Bruises. Actually had his left eye gouged out too—little known Oscorp secret. The one he has now is fake.” Jessica was frowning at him. Stalling, stalling- “A-anyway, the criminal stole some money, some art—none of the good stuff. Just what was visible.” Harry hesitated. He looked at Gwen again. “My… father was, as you can imagine, pretty badly injured. But my mother, she, um…”

“She was strangled to death,” Jessica guessed.

Harry chuckled darkly, feeling nothing. “They never caught the burglar, you know. No one seemed to care, and I- I was _so_ angry. I even considered becoming a cop over it, to see justice for that kind of thing. No kid should ever-” He bit off what he was going to say. Nervously, he tapped his fingers against his desk in a little rhythm. Quietly, almost to himself, he said, “She was gonna divorce him and take me with her. She had the papers. She showed them to me. And then-”

Harry didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to dwell. But not facing things before had ended so horribly for him. He covered his stomach with a fist, looking down at it blindly. How much pain could he have dodged if he’d just told somebody what was going on? Any of it? The abuse from his father? The experiments? The loss of memory?

Harry was a puppet, an extension of his father, and he had played his part beautifully.

Harry didn’t want to be a puppet anymore. 

Jessica watched him wordlessly. Harry blinked rapidly, then offered her his hand. “If there is something I can do to nail down what my father has done, please trust that I will bring it to you.”

The tension between Jessica’s eyebrows eased. She reached in the space between them and accepted his gesture, gripping his hand briefly. That small thing shouldn’t have felt so much like a victory, but it did.

Jessica then left, pausing only to say goodbye to Gwen on the other side of the door.

Gwen came in as soon as they parted, closing the door behind her. “She’s going to look at everything,” she said quickly, worriedly. “Even the security footage.”

Harry glanced at the window behind her, then tugged Gwen closer to his desk, releasing her almost immediately. “As far as the footage is concerned, Peter was never here that night,” he whispered quietly. He met her grim look with his own. It was the only thing that either one of them cared about for that night.

After a beat, Gwen’s stern expression melted into a smile. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Harry laughed, then groaned, falling back into his chair. “Are you sure? Because I feel like running away from this dumpster fire Dad left me would feel really, really good right now.” He reached out to her with one hand, smiling. “Want to go to Hawaii?”

Leaning into the side of his desk, she caught his fingers, winding them together. “We’re making some breakthroughs with Vitanova based off of my cure,” she said apologetically. She bit her lip. “We might- It might actually be a viable cancer cure, Harry.”

“Someday,” he said.

“Someday,” she agreed.

Harry played with her hand for a moment. Then he leaned forward, clasping it between both of his own. “I don’t think you caught me in time,” he admitted, voice tight and raw.

Gwen’s smile faded. “You don’t know that.”

Harry ducked his head, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. He didn’t used to be this angry all the time. He didn’t used to hear high-pitched laughter. And he certainly didn’t used to feel Green Goblin’s pointy fingers digging into his skull on a nightly basis. He felt like he was crazy, like he was a ticking time bomb, and he hated it.

Harry released her. “I have a gift for you,” he said, swiveling over to his desk drawer. He pulled out a gift bag with off-white and glittery tissue paper and presented it to her with a flourish.

Gwen accepted it reluctantly. “You don’t have the best track record for gifts,” she reminded him, holding it between her hands.

“This one is functional.” Snorting, she lifted it out of the bag, unwrapping it from its tissue-y home. Then her head shot up, blue eyes snapping to him.

In her small hands was a high-end taser. Her expression was wide open and yet so hard to read. Before Harry could make sense of the emotion swirling on her face, her gaze dropped back to the taser.

Harry swallowed, knowing he needed to explain himself. “If I ever become the kind of man that hurts another, hurts you, then consider me already dead. And make my corpse regret wearing my face.”

Gwen stared at it for a long time. Then she dropped it on his desk, wrapping her arms around his shoulders tightly.

“I’m not going to let that happen to you,” she said fiercely.

Harry accepted the hug, burying his face in her shoulder. He wanted to believe her. But he had his doubts. He may have been an eternal disappointment to his father, but that apple didn’t fall that far from the tree.

He was more like his father than he was ready to deal with.

 

-

 

Peter’s life right now was a series of baby steps. He was relearning how to walk and how to function in a world that was so different and yet still so unchanged.

He was back at work, which he’d always planned on. But, even after his conversation with Ben, he wasn’t quite back at work on the Spidey side. Nevermind the clear and obvious evidence that such a return would be heartily welcomed, there was still a large part of him that broke out in a cold sweat at the idea of donning the suit again.

But… baby steps. Peter took to wearing his webshooters under his work clothes to get used to the weight of them again. He was surprised how soothing it was, like a security blanket he’d forgotten the touch of.

He was back in his apartment too. Now that? That was a big change. Something had happened there since his retreat to Queens. Someone had broken in, but instead of taking things, they had left things behind in a reverse burglary.

Three guesses who, and the first two didn’t count.

His shitty HVAC system had been replaced. His cupboards were full of ingredients of the handful of recipes he knew how to make, and his ancient sheets and blankets had been replaced with fabric that felt like heaven against his skin. He had new rugs, socks, towels, and hoodies. His bathroom had been cleaned within an inch of its life, revealing patterning and shiny chrome Peter hadn’t seen in years. His couch had been replaced with a plush monstrosity Peter instantly wanted to marry. And, on top of all of that, his perpetually grouchy landlord checked in with him immediately and asked how he was, which was generally not the tone of their conversations. Peter was pretty sure the old man had been scheming on a way to kick him out since he moved in.

Peter didn’t know how to respond to all the changes. All he knew was all of it seemed an awful lot like an apology.

He should have been annoyed at the break-in, but he wasn’t. Instead, he felt a little something like hope.

When he had given up Spider-Man that day, he’d had a vague, half-formed plan of rekindling his relationship with Wade, despite everything. Wade belonged to the Peter Parker side of his life, not Spider-Man. But when Wade had shown up in his apartment that same day, his plan imploded like the ill-thought out stupidity it was. Even if Peter excised all that was Spider-Man from his life, there was no way in hell Peter would have been able to keep their confrontation on the rooftops under wraps. Injuries aside, hiding it would have eaten him alive.

But now Wade knew Spider-Man and his boyfriend were one and the same, and with weeks and weeks in between now and that horrible day, Peter felt confident that maybe they could move past this, and he felt hope that maybe Wade felt the same way.

But when no one called him or showed up at his apartment, the hope dimmed. When he went back to work and his coworkers told him that they hadn’t seen Deadpool for over a month, Peter wallowed in a different kind of grief.

That was its own answer, wasn’t it? Wade, like May, knew the power of apologies. An apology was a declaration to put a stop to a certain hurtful behavior. It didn’t come with any strings attached… from either side.

So Peter moved on. There was plenty to move on to. Oscorp was almost back to normal, but there was so much that needed to be done on a daily basis. At some point, the head of his department had been forcibly retired, and Peter was immediately promoted. It was only then that he started seeing the insidiousness of some of the other executive assistants in his department. Bribes, threats, and blackmail were common methods in their tool box, and Norman had encouraged it. Peter found himself working overtime almost every night, trying to differentiate the bad actors from the good ones.

Peter was aware that the usual intensity he saved for Spider-Man was spilling over into his work, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Harry kept tensing up around him, roughly patting Peter’s shoulder with an increasingly desperate air. Peter wanted to tell him that he didn’t operate like a dog. His happiness didn’t correlate to the number of pats he received.

There was nothing for him at home except a few comfy furnishings and his own thoughts. All he had was work, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a life preserver.

It was noticed. Three weeks back from vacation, Peter was pulled into a special research project. It stank of an intervention.

“Oscorp policy sets lunch breaks at thirty minutes,” Peter said, not looking up from his computer.

“It’s a work lunch,” Gwen countered. “Special assignment from Harry.” She wiggled a tablet in Peter’s direction with one hand. “He wants me to go through Oscorp’s research in the last six months, see what else Norman was hiding. I could use a second pair of eyes.”

Peter was not a researcher, and he told her as much. But his resolve weakened when Gwen took out the black company credit card and slid it across his desk.

“Pizza’s on Harry.”

Well. Peter had always been a cheap date.

They took over a small conference room. Between them, they had three laptops, two tablets, and the smart TV. Gwen ordered in four pizzas, and they got down to business. Peter ate mindlessly, absorbed by the research. It was fascinating, in a way. Like looking through a portal to another dimension. If everything hadn’t gone down the way it had, Peter could have been in the lab right beside Gwen, making these discoveries and creating these products, and nothing Oscorp did was ever _uninteresting_.

But that initial giddiness faded when he dug deeper into the data and started comparing it to the heavily redacted reports from SHIELD.

Wade had been right all along. The Green Goblin had his fingers in almost every project at Oscorp. He was spreading out the creation of his weapons across the entire company, which was hard to track, especially when vital components to horrific weapons had an innocent use. It was impossible to tell which came first without talking to the man himself.

“Your caloric intake must be intense.”

Peter had just polished off his second pizza. He chewed thickly through his first slice of his third. “Is that why you’ve been plying me with MREs?” He kept finding them in his desk and his work bag.

“Me? I would never.” Peter just stared at her. She caved. “I thought it would help,” she said apologetically.

“It does. But it tastes like crap.” It reminded him of his full cupboards and his comfortable bed and his warm apartment, and his mood dropped again. Peter frowned at the laptop in front of him.

Gwen propped her chin up on her palm. “How are you doing, Peter?” Ha. Here was the intervention.

“Fine,” he said abruptly. Then, realizing that was harsh, he gentled his tone, offering more information. “I spent some time with my aunt and uncle while I was out?”

“Oh?”

“It was nice.” It was an unexpected win in a sea of losses.

“How’s Deadpool doing?” Gwen asked. She flinched at the look on Peter’s face and backed up a little, hands flying to her tablet awkwardly. “Sorry, Harry said you were dating him.”

“I wouldn’t know. He’s not in town.” He couldn’t be. Since they started their relationship, Wade had never been in town and not gotten in Peter’s face immediately, whining for attention.

“Did he know you were-”

“No,” Peter said quickly. He wanted to put a brutal end to this conversation. At the same time, he wanted it to continue. He never got a chance to talk to anyone about this, not even to Wade himself. Ben knew about Spider-Man, but he didn’t know about Deadpool. “He didn’t know I was-”

“No? _Peter_...”

“He didn’t know. And like everyone else…” Like everyone else, he’d thought Harry Osborn was Spider-Man. “He caught me towards the end. Right when the Avengers found you.”

Gwen reached across the table, gripping Peter’s forearm gently. “Did he… hurt you?”

Yeah. And Peter hurt him right back.

“It was… a means to an end, I’m sure.” Peter looked up from the table and waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t give me that face. He was hardly the only one attacking me that night. I have the dubious pleasure of knowing exactly what kind of scab marks develop after healing from a repulsor blast.”

If anyone was curious, it healed in a starburst pattern. It was kind of pretty. Tony’s expression afterwards? Less pretty. He’d had his plate up and everything, like he was just asking for the wad of spiderweb Peter eventually shot straight up his nose. Next time he’d seen Tony was hours later at the old Avengers’ tower.

Gwen was frowning. “Did he ever apologize?”

“Stark?”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “No, Peter. Your boyfriend.”

Peter remembered Wade taking care of him—thorough but clinical. Peter remembered walking into his apartment after weeks in Queens, expecting stale air and rotten food and nothing more. Peter remembered coming in ten minutes early to work his first day back, both excited and dreading the possibility of running into Wade at work.

“I think this is his apology.” Wade was giving him space to breathe and space to heal, and Peter needed it badly. But then why did he feel so miserable?

“Do you hate him? Or do you forgive him?” Gwen asked.

“Did you forgive Harry for what he did to you?” Peter asked, punting the difficult question right back at her.

Gwen’s eyes widened. “What?”

“He attacked you,” Peter reminded her mercilessly. “Several times.”

“He was- that wasn’t him.” Gwen started scowling at him. “I’m not going to hold his actions against him when he really didn’t have control!”

Peter stared at her for a long moment. Then he let out a rough laugh, covering his face with his hand. No. Their experiences weren’t the same at all.

This was supposed to be an easy conversation. You get attacked by or hit by your partner? End of story. Dump his ass. Lose his number. Go on and live your best life.

But Wade had been trying to _save_ Spider-Man. At one point, he’d even tried to get Peter to turn himself in after allegedly trying to beat a superhero to death. All of them had been like that, pleading with their words when their tactics failed. How was Wade any different than Ben or Rhodes or Natasha or anyone else who’d tried to stop him that day? How was Wade any different than Tony or Jessica or Reed or anyone who’d ignored him when he tried to convince them to back off?

Wade had come the closest to catching him and had resorted to brutal and ugly tactics to do it. There were others amongst them that would have done the same, or worse. But he was also the only one who knew _Peter Parker_ , and Wade was the one, out of all of them, that Peter trusted the most. And Wade still hadn’t listened when Peter begged him to back off.

And Peter was angry about all that still. Angry at Norman for his insane plans. Angry at Harry for keeping his mouth shut about what Norman was doing to him. Angry at himself, for a lot of things. For not noticing the snake in his midst. For not pursuing his leads more thoroughly. For letting his personal life have any sort of foothold in his calendar. 

But mostly, he was angry at himself for not telling Wade—or anyone else, really—his real identity soon enough.

This whole thing would have blown over so quickly. They would have laughed themselves blue in the face when Harry did his press conference stunt. Maybe Norman would have been convinced, but Peter wouldn’t have been preoccupied with his allies’ growing distrust and suspicion—and if he wasn’t so preoccupied, what would he have noticed instead? Would he have noticed Harry, barely keeping it together? Would he have noticed Gwen and what she was doing sooner?

This was all as bad as it was because Peter had failed to keep a lid on the situation—so, no, he didn’t hate Wade, and no, he didn’t think there was anything left to forgive. Wade had meant to incapacitate him, and he hadn’t been afraid to hurt Peter to do it—and it made sense. If everyone else in town failed to capture an out-of-control enhanced individual with their own techniques, could he really blame Wade for using his own skillset? It wasn’t personal.

And, really, it was only when he’d seen Peter’s actual face that he’d-

Peter winced, remembering it. God. Poor Wade. 

For the first time in weeks, Peter didn’t think about getting chased and stalked around town by his own friends, painted as the enemy. He didn’t think about the way the Green Goblin cackled as the world fell apart around him, all according to plan. He didn’t think about getting stabbed or having to break his own hand.

Instead, he thought about the way Wade had carefully clutched Peter to him when taking him out of the bloody bathtub, like Peter was nothing but spun glass.

He thought of Wade hugging him from behind on Sunday mornings, his chin hooking over Peter’s shoulders as he hummed songs Peter had only vaguely heard of. He thought of the huge outrageous grin that would spread over Wade’s face before he bounded, puppy-like, over to wherever Peter was at work. He thought of the intense way Wade’s unmasked eyes tracked Peter, like he was committing Peter’s every breath to his memory.

Wade didn’t ruin their relationship. _Peter_ did. And if Wade didn’t want to continue it, well… Peter just had to accept that.

After all, Peter had his own set of apologies to make too. And not just to Wade, but also to the city he’d abandoned as Spider-Man.

 

-

 

Tony had been jittery for hours. After all, it was practically a once-in-a-lifetime event, having your favorite MIA superhero suddenly reappear in society, whole and hale and ready to take on the world.

Okay, so maybe that had happened twice to Tony. But he was taking his childhood hero worship of Captain America to the grave. No matter how noble history books made his friend appear, Steve was a shit sometimes. He would never let Tony forget it.

After Spider-Man had made his explosive social media post, announcing that he was back in the game, all Tony heard was how he making his rounds to the different alliances, talking to everyone he could.

He’d started with the Four. Tony had jumped on them almost immediately after he heard about it. Reed and Sue talked around the meeting, not really saying anything at all, but Ben Grimm had sniffled tellingly, his rocky throat doing nothing to help him be more discreet about how emotional the meeting was for him. Johnny had flown off, not engaging.

After the Four, Spider-Man had gone to the Defenders, and Tony knew if the Four were bad, their dysfunctional street-level fighters were going to be even worse. As usual, getting anything out of Luke or Danny was like trying to get blood out of a stone, but Murdock said the meeting was good. Jessica had just grinned and asked Tony what he was willing to pay for the information. Tony was frustrated with them all, really.

But now, today, Spider-Man had tentatively requested access to the Avengers Compound. Tony let him have access immediately but didn’t bombard the kid with his presence. But there was no way in hell Tony wasn’t going to eavesdrop.

So far, Spider-Man had made up with Clint and Sam and shared breakfast with Natasha, Hope, and Scott. He’d had the most godawful exchange with Steve where they both stopped short of apologizing and sounded horrifically guilty about it. In fact, the only part of their conversation that sounded like it wasn’t agonizing was when Spider-Man asked if Steve knew where Deadpool was. After escaping that train wreck, he’d passed on Wanda’s favorite chocolate to her under Vision’s approving eyes, and even briefly chatted with freshly arrived Bruce about what he’d seen in Wakanda—and Brucie Bear was being a goddamn _chatterbox_.

When was Peter going to get around to chatting with him? Now, he was speaking to T’Challa, of all people, who was only around for the next forty minutes. Who knew they were friends?

“…if you need anything, even another break,” T’Challa was saying carefully, “you know I would be willing to stand in your shoes once more, my friend.”

Tony dropped his wrench.

Unaware of listening ears, the king continued. “The appeal of a spider is still foreign to me, but stepping in as you is always very invigorating.”

Tony threw his hands up. Where the hell was T’Challa in the profiles? “FRIDAY!” he barked.

FRIDAY obligingly pulled up the last unidentified profile. Tony rolled his chair over to it, squinting at the different recordings they’d used. T’Challa was an above-average mimic, which made him dangerous to fight. Was it T’Challa who lingered for milliseconds longer on his toes than the average Spidey? Or was it Spidey?

“Boss?” FRIDAY said warningly.

T’Challa had to be taller than Spidey. Or was Spidey taller than T’Challa? It was ridiculous that Tony didn’t even have the most basic metrics on his second favorite king. “Why don’t we have a training profile on T’Challa?”

“Because Okoye would break your skull,” Spider-Man said in his ear.

Tony flinched, rolling away from the upside-down superhero. “See you’re still as creepy as usual.” His chair hit the table with an anti-climatic thud.

Spider-Man cocked his head. “Hypocritical, much?” He casually flipped off the line of webbing, rolling his shoulder. When he looked up, his lenses narrowed. The broken one was fixed, Tony noticed.

“How did you know I was eavesdropping?”

Spider-Man tapped the side of his head. “Super hearing. I heard myself in stereo.” He looked to the side, eyeing the unclaimed profile. He froze in place. Who knew such a blank mask could be so emotive?

Tony rushed to explain. “Kid, I-”

Spider-Man beat him to the punch. “I’m not… worried you’re going to use that,” he said tentatively. “I can even help you fill that profile out, if you want. If it helps.”

There were a lot of blank spots and empty fields...

Tony pushed out of his chair. “So much of the shit that happened to you happened because I was trying to understand you, trying to quantify you. I- I’m sorry, kid.” After a beat, Tony clapped a hand over his chest where shards of metal had once threatened to end his life. He smiled, but it quickly died under a wave of self-hate. “I’m supposed to be an expert at this sort of thing, right? I’ve been Iron Man for a really long time. But I didn’t know anything about the other Spideys, and I sure as hell didn’t know you were passing information on to us. It… bothered me a lot, and I made it into this huge thing...”

“I wasn’t exactly being honest,” Spider-Man said, fiddling with a piece of wire on Tony’s table.

“The thing is, I never questioned why you wanted to keep your identity secret,” Tony admitted. Spider-Man looked up at that. “Look, I had a chance to be like you. To hide my identity under the mask, to protect everyone around me by doing so.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I decided not to. I decided not to because I had the ability, resources, and sheer vindictiveness to absolutely _ruin_ anyone who tried to mess with my people,” Tony said with a venomous sneer, angry just thinking about it. He blinked, rocking back on his heels. “Point is, I had a chance, and I considered it. So I get that. I get _you_.”

Spider-Man rubbed the back of his neck. “If my identity wasn’t an issue, what was?”

“Oh, just the other things,” Tony said flippantly, turning away from him. He walked over to the edge of his workshop, opening up a fridge. He pulled out a water, rolling it in his hands a bit. “Nearly every superhero in town owed you something. Except for me.” And Steve. Tony turned around. “Why didn’t you ever ask me for stuff? We’ve always gotten along for years and years. We both know I would have helped you in a heartbeat.”

“I know. That’s why I couldn’t ask.”

Tony stared at him for a while longer before barking out a short laugh. “Boy, kid, you’re some piece of work,” he said with some awe.

“They don’t call me amazing for nothing.”

Tony snorted. He waved a hand. Spider-Man’s profile jumped to him before spinning around, moving in time with his fingers. “I can get rid of this and make you an actual training profile.” Then he balled up his fist, the digital display crinkling with it, and tossed it like a basketball into his actual trash can. He smirked at Spider-Man, tipping his head. “Juror #7.”

“Can I have your computer?”

“No. But if you’re very good, I’ll let you look over my shoulder as I do awesome and whip you up a real profile.”

And, just because Spider-Man asked, Tony showed him how. Unlike most of the other profile owners, Spider-Man seemed uniquely fascinated with the whole process. If he kept it up, Tony’s ego was going to fill the room.

They spent an hour together like this. Spider-Man sat on one of his tables, chatting with FRIDAY and Tony as Tony fine-tuned his AI’s data to something that might actually save Spidey’s life one day. This was probably the most time they’d ever spent together, minus any major catastrophes, and Tony kept finding himself quietly impressed with the way Spider-Man thought. Or didn’t think.

But all good things had to come to an end. Spider-Man clapped a hand on Tony’s shoulder and hopped off the table.

Tony didn’t take his eyes off his computer. “So. T’Challa, huh?” Tony asked faux-casually. “Gonna give me the hint. Where was he in the rainbow alignment of fake Spideys?”

“You’re not going to find him. He’s very camera shy.” Spider-Man covered a hand over his mouth, whispering, “Don’t tell the others, but he’s one of the few that is allowed to use my webshooters.”

Tony could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re such a goddamn troll.”

“Hm, yes.” Spider-Man’s lens compressed to thin slits in the light. “I have to go now, Mr. Stark. But how would you feel if I told you there were actually _ten_ Spideys, not seven?”

What. The. _Fuck._ “Get out,” Tony said flatly.

Snickering, Spider-Man hauled himself off the table. “Bye, Mr. Stark!”

Goddamn kid. It was just like him to drop a goddamn puzzle in Tony’s lap before waltzing off gleefully. He wasn’t going to obsess. He wasn’t. Nope. Nuh huh. He was going to go home to his beautiful life and beautiful wife, and not think about this. At _all_.

“FRIDAY-”

“Yep. Already on it, boss.”

Pepper was going to kill him.

The rainbow Spideys spun around his workspace in one full circuit before collapsing again in raw algorithms and codes. Tony found himself grinning at the destruction nevertheless.

“You’re such a brat, Peter Parker.”

 

-

 

The next time Wade saw Peter, it was in an elevator. Peter looked up, surprised at his new companion, and Wade almost wanted to vomit with the stress of it. Should he really be doing this? Especially now? Especially after everything? Especially in a way that made Peter a captive audience in a place Wade already hated?

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked tenderly.

It wasn’t just any elevator. It was an Oscorp elevator, owned and managed by bargain brand Spidey. Wade wouldn’t have touched this place again, not without a ten foot pole, except…

Except he’d heard that the real Spider-Man had asked around about him.

Peter’s eyes were wide. He looked… good. Like he’d been well-rested and well-fed wherever he’d disappeared to. Wade approved. Wade approved a lot.

“Oh, wait,” Wade remembered. He reached for his gun, but, remembering what had happened last time—Spidey senses! Tiny spaces! Loud noises! God, Wade was such an _asshat_ —pulled out his katana. “Hold on a sec, I’ll remove the prying eyes.”

Before Wade could utter his ‘just the tip’ joke, the speaker screeched with sudden feedback. “No, sir, you do not need to destroy our camera! We’ll turn off the feed!”

Wade paused at that. He cocked his hip out, glaring up at Oscorp’s one eye of shame. “You see a known killer corner one of your most delightful coworkers in an elevator—and that’s your response? _Please don’t wreck our shit_?” Wade jabbed a finger at the speaker. “You are a hemorrhoid on the asshole of life, sir!”

“Security, just turn off the recording,” Peter said tiredly. The speaker made an immediate clicking sound.

Wade was outraged. “And how would you even know if they complied?” he demanded. “This is literally the worst place to work. Quit and work for me. I’ll give you all my money.” Every last red penny. He didn’t need any of it.

But Peter was tense, not quite making eye contact, and when Wade realized why, he could have gutted himself.

He’d cornered his grumpy boy in an elevator. That alone, much badness. Pulling out a sword and waving it like an idiot didn’t help, especially given Peter’s last experience with him.

He put it away quickly, and, when that didn’t quite remove the tense expression from Peter’s face, he stuck a thumb under his mask, hauling it up. “Does this help?”

Peter caught his hand before he could yank it all the way off. “Don’t,” he said gently, eyes jumping up to Wade’s.

Wade was relieved. Peter had asked him exactly once to go outside without his mask. It was nothing huge. He was just tagging along with Peter as they went to the corner market to grab candy and beer. Wade had done it willingly, hating life the entire time, and Peter had never asked him to do it again. There was a small handful of people he was comfortable looking at him without a barrier. The general public wasn’t one of them.

It was good of him to still care about something like that. “I heard you were looking for me.”

Peter nodded slowly. He pulled back down Wade’s mask, thumbs sweeping over the hollows of his cheeks. Wade held his breath. Sure, Pinkie Pie and her Goth GF thought he had a chance, but did he actually? Why? There was no way in hell he’d earned this yet...

Then, reluctantly, Peter pulled away. “Yeah. About that… other thing.” His eyes moved suspiciously to the camera.

Ah. He hadn’t earned shit yet. All was right with the world. “I haven’t told anyone,” Wade said immediately.

“I know you haven’t.”

Wade didn’t think he knew the depths of how much Wade hadn’t told anyone. He’d given Cap back his money and didn’t make a peep. He’d burnt all of the notes too—almost the whole apartment down with it. What useless research, anyway. He’d circled around Harry like a dead fish down a toilet bowl.

And he would have a hard time forgetting the answer to that eternal question anyway: Peter’s shadowed, tear-stained face was seared into his brain for all eternity.

It was enough to drive a guy mad. Or, at least, have a guy dip his toe in villainy once again, if only to have something to distract himself from the screaming in his head. In fact, the only thing that kept him spiraling off the deep end this time was the absolute knowledge that Steve would somehow find and convince Spider-Man to don the mask one last time to try and get through to Wade. The last thing Wade wanted to do was force Peter to confront him.

So Wade sat and he drank and he ate and he watched television. And, occasionally, when life became too much, he practiced Olympic diving routines off the nearest tall building. Nothing he hadn’t done before. Nothing he hadn’t healed from before. And nothing he didn’t fully, whole-heartedly deserve for putting his hands on Peter with anything but love.

“Whatever you’re thinking, I forgave you a long time ago,” Peter said, nonsensically. He gripped Wade’s bicep briefly, looking up at his face. “But you don’t have to forgive me. A whole lotta crap could have been dodged if I’d been a little braver. That’s on me.”

Wade cocked his head. Um. What?

Peter’s grumpy little face was so grim. Wade wanted to shove into him and pull that frown upside down. Gosh, this was _not_ the kind of face meant for misery. He was like a puppy. A golden retriever. What kind of people genuinely wanted to see a puppy look that sad? Monsters, that’s who.

And what kind of self-sacrificing, guilt-chugging hogwash hsd his creator shoved into that body to make him so unbelievably determined to hate himself?

“You remember that I stabbed _you_ , right?” Maybe Petey was forgetful. Wade sure as hell was.

“Yeah. All while trying to save a friend.” Peter reached for him. Wade flinched back. His mouth twisting wryly, Peter retreated. _No, come back._ “Gonna hide from me forever?”

Like that was the issue. But Peter had said friend. Wade could do friend. Wade could so do friend. He’d be the bestest friend Petey boy ever had. He would take the word bromance to dizzying new heights.

But he loved Peter too, in all the selfish ways you weren’t supposed to. If Wade was just his friend, it was going to rip his heart out everyday. Because to Wade, Peter wasn’t just his friend or his boyfriend or his grumpy hunny with a heart of gold.

There was never going to be another person after Peter. Wade would never love anyone ever again.

“I don’t know how to approach you anymore,” Wade said honestly.

Peter smiled sadly, like he expected that. “When you figure it out, let me know. I miss you.”

Petey was talented at a lot of things, more things than Wade had given him credit for. But Wade had never met someone who made a parting phrase feel so much like a punch to the heart.

 

-

 

After months of building up their resources and criminal networks, the drug traffickers in Harlem had expected Luke and maybe Jessica to try and break up their operations. They hadn’t expected Luke, Jessica, Hawkeye, Torch, _and_ Spider-Man.

They scrambled to keep defending their work, but they had lost the second the five superheroes entered the warehouse. The only thing still up in the air was how many of them would leave in an ambulance. They fought back hard nevertheless, greed fueling them where common sense failed.

Peter welcomed it. Nothing got him back in the swing of things like guys twice his size swinging crowbars at his head.

It was a tight and straight-forward operation, more of a victory lap than a tough assignment intended to test their cooperation. They had backup outside in the form of Captain America and Invisible Woman, but they wouldn’t need it. Thanks to their training, they were already a well-oiled machine together, no matter which particular alliance each one of them happened to belong to.

There was a third person keeping an eye on them too. All throughout the fight, Peter shuddered under the feeling of eyes on him. With it, his Spidey sense was buzzing pleasantly, hopeful.

Red and blue lights shone through the windows just as they put the last trafficker down. The police took over then, cuffing up bad guys left and right and documenting the evidence left in plain sight. Jessica and Luke stayed on the ground, the official police liaisons for this bust. The rest of them debriefed on the roof. Beyond some minor tactical observations, they all had done exceeding well.

Victory. Lap.

“Any other final thoughts before we bug out?” Clint asked, yawning. He itched his jaw where a thick cover of stubble was forming.

“Yes,” Steve said quickly. “Johnny, again, be more aware of your surroundings. You can’t count on burning or melting your enemies all the time.” Johnny saluted him, the gesture only half-sarcastic. “Clint, remember, this is a group effort, not a two-man team. Use all the resources at hand. But great job cutting off their exits to the back door.” Clint nodded.

Then Steve turned to Peter. “And speaking of which,” he started, “turning the entryway between the front and main rooms into a bottleneck was especially inspired.” Steve started to smile. “Good job, Pe-” A tense look fluttered over Steve’s face as he visibly bit down on Peter’s name. After a beat, he looked guilty and concerned.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Ha!” Johnny shouted. He jabbed at finger in Steve’s direction. “So you _do_ know his name!”

“Of course he does,” Sue said flatly to her brother. “Paul, right?” She winked at Peter.

“Paul?” Luke said, coming up the stairs. “I thought it was Patrick.”

“ _Pablo_ ,” Jessica purred behind him with a big, Cheshire grin.

“Peyton. Pike. Percy. Parry,” Clint said, as if reciting his guesses.

Johnny looked around, realizing, as Peter did, that everyone knew Peter’s real name except for him. He scowled. “I fucking hate you all.” With that grim announcement, he flamed up and took off across the sky.

“Aw, Spidey,” Sue said, “put him out of his misery. You know he only wants to know your name to tease you about it.”

“Why do you think I haven’t told him yet?

Job done, they all parted ways, Steve pausing only long enough to apologize for his slip up. He promised to be more circumspect about it in the future, but Peter was, for the first time in his career as Spider-Man, oddly unconcerned about this. It was freeing, in a way, not to have to keep one more thing from his friends, and he knew it meant a lot to them too. Sure, very few of them had seen his face and even fewer knew Peter Parker, but just knowing his first name went a long way.

Peter was pretty sure he could work up to revealing more. In time.

But first, he had to finish up the night’s patrol. He got up to the skyline, swinging from rooftop to rooftop. By the the time he swung around the fifth building, those eyes were on him again, just watching. Peter almost missing the next line, somersaulting over a roof to make up for his awkward misstep. Then, spying on a mugging below, he changed trajectories and dive bombed the alley.

If Wade was just going to watch, then Peter was going to give him a show.

His patrol was productive. On top of the team assignment, he webbed up two muggers and three gang members, stopped a violent assault outside a bar, walked a middle schooler home, helped an old man fetch his cat out of a storm drain, traded intel with Yuri about a suspicious spat of carjackings in Chinatown, stopped three attempted break-ins, and took sixteen selfies with a bunch of lost, jittery tourists while they waited for their ride back to their hotel.

It had been two weeks since he’d seenWade, and he was hoping tonight was going to change that. But the night was long, and Peter was busy. By the time Peter headed home, that hope had not only been squashed, it had been forgotten.

He slipped through his window and pulled off his mask. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and stretched his sore shoulders, reaching up to the ceiling.

Then, behind him, there was a clatter on the fire escape.

Peter hauled his mask back over his face hastily, dropping into a defensive crouch by his new couch, his fingers hovering over the trigger of his webshooters. He stayed silent, wary, ready to defend himself.

Through the window he’d just entered, a large man with massive shoulders slipped inside, one leg at a time. His toes hit the ground first, then his heel. It was a completely silent move. Had he not goofed on the fire escape, Peter would have never heard him enter the apartment.

Peter watched for a little while longer, 100% of his focus on the man agilely breaking into his apartment. Then he straightened up to his full height. “Hey.”

This greeting startled his intruder. His remaining foot caught in the window, but he twisted, somehow shifting from a seemingly inevitable full-face plant into a graceful forward roll—and he stuck the landing too, extending both arms out to his admirers.

Peter obligingly clapped.

Preening at this, Wade hopped to his feet and yanked off his mask to his nose. “I’ve made a decision.”

Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “And that is?” He may have wanted Wade to come back at some point, but that didn’t mean that, now that Wade was here, he didn’t have mixed feelings about it. Two weeks of radio silence could do that to a guy, make him second guess every thought or want or desire that floated across his mind.

On top of that was an equally confusing sense that he’d accept whatever Wade had decided about their relationship, but if he was there to end things and give Peter some closure, Peter would like to go back to the radio silence, thank you very much. There was hope in that.

But this didn’t seem like that conversation. For all his flaws, Wade was kind when it came to things like this, prone to putting Peter’s feelings first. He would never have approached a final break-up conversation looking like Peter had the power to crush him.

“My whole heart is tied up in you. You know this,” Wade reminded him gently. The white-knuckled grip Peter had on his own arms loosened just a tad. “Just being your friend will hurt. Can’t lie, hunny. It will.” Wade straightened to his full height, scarred lips flattening. “But I’d rather follow you around, wrecked and half out of my mind, than be whole and without you.”

Peter’s arms dropped entirely. Oh.

Deadpool had never hidden his admiration and sheer like of Spider-Man. Spider-Man had rarely reciprocated (and, in fact, reciprocated a lot less when Deadpool became a semi-permanent fixture at Oscorp), but that didn’t stop Deadpool from calling Spider-Man his friend. And, like Peter, Wade had been willing to do a lot to protect a friend, even if it put him at odds with people he cared about.

During their last conversation, he’d tried to express to Wade that he’d understood that, that he didn’t blame Wade for essentially doing that same thing Peter was doing.

And somehow Wade had taken it the wrong way.

“I’d rather you be whole and with me,” Peter said, pushing up his mask to his nose. Then, biting down on a smile, he put his hands on his hips. “And besides, who said I just wanted to be friends?”

Wade’s eyes went really round, like Peter had just taken the wind out of his sails. He sagged into himself, losing a full foot of his height. “...oh, thank god,” he muttered to his navel, voice small.

Then he pounced on Peter.

It happened so quickly. First, they were facing off. Then, they were wrapped up in each other. Wade was backing him up, groping the back of his thighs. Peter hopped, circling Wade’s waist with his legs. Wade groaned into his mouth and pressed him up against the wall, grinding into him so sweetly.

Then Wade stopped. He pulled back slightly, pressing this thumbs into Peter’s cheeks. Solemnly, he looked at Peter, eyes on his hands.

Peter’s head was buzzing. He was breathless. He couldn’t figure out what had made Wade stop.

Then he realized Wade had his thumbs hooked under his mask, and he was there, patiently waiting for the go ahead. Peter’s heart went double-time. He immediately circled Wade’s wrists with his hands, gripping gently.

It was one thing to start sharing his first name with his friends. It was one thing to share his actual identity with the ones he trusted the most. It was quite another to have someone pull off his mask. The lizard part of his brain that associated a bare-faced Spider-Man with Aunt May getting hurt… it was _screaming_ at him.

But not his Spidey sense. And not his heart.

Peter slid his hands to the back of Wade’s, squeezing them reassuringly. Even so, he closed his eyes when Wade slowly peeled his mask upward, spandex sliding over his nose and forehead. Once it sprang free of his hair, Peter clenched his eyes shut even tighter, waiting for the world to end.

It didn’t.

“Petey…”

Peter cracked open one eye slowly, squinting. Wade pulled off his own mask too, and he had that ear-to-ear grin on his face, that one that spelled complete delight and incandescent happiness, that one Peter never seemed to see directed at anyone but himself.

Making a small noise, Peter cupped the back of Wade’s neck and pulled him close. Wade kissed him back eagerly, then spun them away from the wall, walking to Peter’s room. _Finally, finally-_

“If you don’t want this-” Wade started warningly.

Peter bit the lobe of his ear none too gently. “If I didn’t want it, I’d throw you out a window.”

Wade giggled and dropped Peter back on his bed. He crawled on top of him, tracing up and down his suit, feeling along the raised lines of the Kevlar. He seemed surprised when he found the break in his suit at his hip.

“This isn’t a onesie,” he said, wonderingly, fingers lingering.

Peter unclipped his belt, tossing it to the floor. Then he pulled him closer impatiently. “Come on, you already knew that.”

“I had to cut you out of the last suit I found you in,” Wade reminded him soberly. He was stiff like a board above Peter all of a sudden, his body carefully suspended away from him so that the only places they touched were where Peter was reaching out. His eyes were scanning around the room, his expression dark and grim.

The last time he’d been in this room hadn’t been great. Maybe they should have continued the reunion on the couch. Or, better yet, Wade’s apartment.

Instead of responding, Peter pulled his hand away from his hip, kissing his palm. “I missed you.”

Wade’s sharp eyes shot down to him. His expression wavered. Suddenly, his weight fell on Peter in something that was less sexy and more like a desperate, full body hug. Peter wrapped his arms around Wade’s broad shoulders protectively, fingers skimming over leather and the straps for his swords.

Wade shuddered against him, tension leaving his form slowly. He had his face smashed against Peter’s shoulder, muttering.

Even with his hearing, it took Peter some time and focus to figure out what he was saying—or singing: “ _Oh, my love,”_ he croned quietly _. “My darling. I've hungered for your touch a long lonely time._ ”

For the first time ever, Peter actually recognized the tune. Stupidly enthusiastic about this, he poked Wade’s ear. “So… who’s Patrick Swayze in this scenario?”

Wade froze. Then his shoulders shook, and he laughed and he laughed and he laughed.

Peter searched for and found Wade’s fingers, linking them together.

They still had some work left for them both, but Peter wasn’t ever going to let Wade go.


	16. Chapter 16

New York City had changed quite a bit in the last year. It was quieter now than it ever had been. Sure, there were still spats of crimes here and there. But nowadays, they went through entire months without murders. And yeah, Wade was absolutely gonna claim credit for it.

And why not? Organized criminal activity almost came to a standstill when bad guys realized the superheroes of New York were no longer sticking to their territories. And, sure, this caused a lot of trouble for the Avengers. But so what? They moved on. The people of New York just didn’t care.

And there were reasons for that. Wade wasn’t 100% sure, but he felt like SHIELD’s army of public relations people had quietly pulled the Defenders, the Four, the X-Men, and, yes, even Spidey into their portfolio.

It was the only explanation of the “found” evidence—and subsequent media coverage—of superheroes and their good deeds. Even Wade got pulled into it with a nice feel piece on him patiently walking an old woman across the street. Of course, they hadn’t captured the slap fight that happened just before it, nor the fact that she kneed him in the crotch for replacing her medicinal walking vodka with LaCroix. Al was a violent old broad sometimes. Wade hoped she lived to 150.

Point was, the positive PR worked. New York City loved Wade—and the other idiots too, he guessed. Hm, love. Love was a weird thing.

Someone landed lightly on the edge of the roof next to him. “Hey, Wade,” he said.

Wade spared him the briefest of glances through one open eye. “Hey, Webs.”

The perch was on-point. The usual red and blue was good—very good, hugging that body in all the right places—and the lenses predictably narrowed at such a lukewarm greeting. Ha. Wade wasn’t falling for that. Not again.

“Quiet patrol tonight,” Webs said casually. “I’m gonna go home. Take a long bath.” He eyed Wade over one rounded shoulder. “Maybe even use some… bubbles.”

_Bubbles!_ Wade quivered. Be strong, Wade. “Make sure you scrub behind your ears,” he said helpfully, folding his hands politely in his lap.

Webs tipped his head back to the sky, like he was begging for patience. Then, flatly, he recited, “I am not the pleasant pheasant plucker, I’m the pleasant pheasant plucker’s son, but I will pluck your pleasant pheasant till the pleasant pheasant plucker’s come.”

Wade’s mood did a 180. “Sweetheart!” He wrapped Peter up in both arms, dragging him close.

Peter’s hand flexed warningly on his forearm. “I hate you and your goddamn codes of the day,” he hissed quietly.

“Sure are memorizing them, though. Right down to the last embarrassing syllable.” Pleased, Wade rubbed their noses together through the masks.

Peter shoved his face away. “Remind me why I can’t just demask?”

Wade huffed. “Image inducers have been around for at least ten years. I’m not an amateur.” Wade made grabby hands at him.

“This is so unnecessary,” Peter complained, ducking under Wade’s attention.

“Says you! Last time I cuddled you on the job, Clint was the one wearing the mask. He stabbed me in the no-no spot, honey. _The no-no spot._ ” He shoved Peter’s face into his chest, announcing to the world, “Nope, this is the only solution!”

“Or you could just not cuddle on the job,” Black Widow commented behind them. “That’s always an option.”

“Gasp! My other favorite spider-themed babe. _Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal_.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Natasha commented, coming out of the shadows. “I’m here to make sure public indecency isn’t on the table.”

“It is always on the table,” Wade said. Peter shoved away from him. “Under the table. Against the table.”

“Against the wall, against the floor,” Peter chimed in, tone brightening up. They were both twelve.

“Still working on the ceiling, though,” Wade confided, slinging an arm around his hunny. “Harder than you think, even with a slinky spider boyfriend.”

Natasha’s eyebrow rose. “It’s not my naked ass getting plastered on YouTube.”

Peter sputtered, scandalized by that. Wade was unimpressed by the implication. He’d done all the research, and all the naked Spidey butts on YouTube were imposters. The naked Deadpool butts, on the other hand, 100% authentic. Grade A genuine Canadian boo-tay.

“What brings you to this side of town?” Peter asked curiously. You never saw Natasha outside of Manhattan.

“The Defenders’ bad guys are bigger than expected. I’m gonna hang with them until it resolves.” Natasha shrugged. “Besides, how uncomplicated is that? No aliens, no spies, no Norse gods. Just criminals.”

“Trust me, their enemies are plenty complicated,” Wade warned. After all, it had been the Defenders who’d picked up the first real stench of the Green Goblin. The Defenders were pros at picking up on evil hiding in plain sight.

A grim look passed over Natasha’s face. “Noted,” she said, walking away from them. “Keep it in your pants, gentlemen.”

Wade’s stomach waited until she had closed the roof access door behind her before growling mournfully. He patted it soothingly.

“Mexican?” Peter offered.

“It’s five in the morning,” Wade pointed out.

Peter mock gasped. “You’re telling me you don’t know a single place in New York that will feed us breakfast burritos at five in the morning? _You’re what’s wrong with this country_.”

He pushed away from Wade, standing up. He stretched, reaching up to the sky, and, watching him, Wade felt his chest swell with sudden but familiar feelings. _Best boy_ , he thought fondly. But it wasn’t enough.

So Wade opened his mouth. “I love you.”

Peter paused, turning around to face him. Swallowing past a knot in his throat, Wade pulled his mask up to his nose, feeling his mouth pull in a goofy smile. “Sorry I haven’t been able to say it much.”

Back at the start of this, Wade’d started off with his warm and gushy feelings with a keen sense that, no matter what he felt, he was a footnote in the life of Peter Parker. His hunny was gonna go places, wonderful places that frowned upon guys like Wade. Even so, Wade sure as hell was gonna make sure Peter didn’t forget about him.

Then they got closer, and Wade had realized he’d somehow tricked Peter into believing Wade was worth knowing, worth _having_. Wade had been petrified of losing that. He was absolutely going to ride that con train until it crashed, because there was no way in hell he’d have Petey otherwise.

Then he’d _hurt_ Peter, and Wade had realized he was just as much of an asshole as he always feared. Was an even bigger one, he found out, because when Peter kept seeing worth in him, he didn’t rush to dispel his baby boy’s misunderstandings of Wade’s basic nature. Wade was bad. Wade was despicable. Wade was the _worst_. But Peter refused to see that in him, and, through Peter’s eyes, Wade was starting to see someone a little different in the mirror. Someone worth knowing. Someone worth having.

But despite all these second (third, fourth) chances, Wade still had a rough time saying a couple of simple words? Ugh, Wade was _trash_. Peter deserved to hear how much Wade loved him every day. Yet the people Wade loved tended to get the worst of it regardless of what he said. Saying that shit wasn’t the jinx he feared it was. No, his very existence was the curse...

Peter hesitated, then closed the distance between the two of them again. He dropped down into his usual perch, tipping Wade’s chin up with his finger. “What are you talking about?” he whispered, pulling up his own mask. “You say it all the time. When you look at me. When you smile at me. When you sing to me.” Peter grinned against his mouth. “I love you too, asshole.”

There it was again. That shiny, warped mirror that made Wade like Wade Wilson again. Wade reached up, smoothing his gloved hand over Peter’s bare nape, kissing him like Peter was the only source of air he would ever need.

In that moment, absolutely nothing went wrong. Life was perfect.

Well, okay—what the fuck, readers. Why you always gotta be calling people out like this?

So maybe the Mexican restaurant with the breakfast burritos he wanted was caught up in an arson the previous night, but you know what? This was New York, a bustling city full of rude commuters, too many cars, and assholes with super powers.

It was _perfect enough._

**Author's Note:**

> If you were curious, here are all the songs Wade sings about or to Peter:
> 
> Can't Help Falling in Love, Elvis Presley  
> Every Time We Say Goodbye, Ella Fitzgerald  
> At Last, Etta James  
> How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You), Marvin Gaye  
> Almost Lover, Alison Sudol  
> Need You Now, Lady Antebellum  
> Unchained Melody, The Righteous Brothers
> 
> If I missed one, let me know. Thanks!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [New Amsterdam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19051945) by [TheStrange_One](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrange_One/pseuds/TheStrange_One)




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